


Double, double toil and trouble

by paranoid_fridge



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Angst, Bilbo is done with all of it before the term has even started, Humor, M/M, playing Quidditch, they're all teachers, though the students are not the problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-05-19 09:27:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5962321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paranoid_fridge/pseuds/paranoid_fridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo remembers saying no. And still finds himself at Hogwarts a week before term is about to begin, having tea with Headmaster Gandalf. Who has not only convinced Bilbo to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, but now wants Bilbo to join the staff Quidditch team as well.</p>
<p>Never, vows Bilbo.</p>
<p>Obviously, this results in him playing seeker for a team lead by ambitious captain Tauriel and grumpy vice-captain Thorin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You don't say 'no' to Headmaster Gandalf.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so I squarely blame the movie-watching squad for this. You know who you are!
> 
> This was betaed by the fantastic [seaweedredandbrown](http://seaweedredandbrown.tumblr.com) and the wonderful[radio](http://radioproxy.tumblr.com) not only enabled this but also furthered it with generous suggestions.
> 
> Annnnd this has been blessed with fantastic artworks too *v*  
> [Awesome poster featuring Bilbo and Thorin in their teaching robes](http://diamond-skeleton.tumblr.com/post/144662360511/double-double-toil-and-trouble-by) by the amazing [diamond-skeleton](https://tmblr.co/mxr6d9u9MwLnHpJZPIfgKQg).  
> And the wonderful [teaxdragon](https://tmblr.co/mPuuWzHKh_q4vKEiyCNWUtQ) drew a [brilliant picture of Bilbo’s encounter with an airplane](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/post/145116123802/double-double-toil-and-trouble-by-paranoidfridge).  
> [The newspaper page with Bilbo and Thorin kissing](http://mithrilbikini.tumblr.com/post/145124058107/eyyyy-heres-my-art-for-paranoidfridges) \- wonderfully rendered by the fantastic [mithrilbikini](http://mithrilbikini.tumblr.com/)  
> And a [fantastic comic of the final scene](http://radioproxy.tumblr.com/post/145869906806/double-double-toil-and-trouble-by) by the amazing [radioproxy](http://radioproxy.tumblr.com/).  
> [The try-out scene where Bilbo and Thorin race for the snitch](http://ewebean.tumblr.com/post/145789940826/harry-potter-au-where-bilbo-baggins-newly-hired) stunningly rendered by the marvellous [ewebean](http://ewebean.tumblr.com).
> 
> AND it got [translated into Chinese](http://funnywinter.lofter.com/post/1d88a470_10459acb) by the wonderful [funnywinter](http://funnywinter.tumblr.com).

“No. No. Most certainly not. No, Gandalf, no. Don’t look at me, no.” Bilbo decisively shakes his head. “No.”

He leans back in the unduly comfortable armchair and takes a demonstrative sip of his tea. Even if he has his doubts on how Gandalf is running the school, he has to admit that the headmaster does brew a nice cup of tea. He does his to enjoy it and ignore the fact that his old acquaintance is watching him with a patient smile over his own cup, not saying a word.

“No.” Bilbo repeats firmly.

The last time Gandalf looked at him like this, they sat in Bilbo’s tiny Manchester flat. They were having tea as well. And Gandalf had somehow convinced Bilbo to come back to Hogwarts as a teacher. But he’s not going to agree to Gandalf’s latest scheme this time. Not when he can already imagine that things aren’t quite as Gandalf describes them.

Especially when it involves…

“Gandalf, it’s been thirty years since I last played Quidditch,” Bilbo says. “I can’t even recall the rules.”

… that blasted sport.

“Oh, they haven’t changed at all. You’ll find there aren’t too many.”

“Yes. Yes! That entire game is hazardous to one’s health! It should have been outlawed centuries ago!”

“Maybe you should give it a chance,” Gandalf suggests. “I know Quidditch looks quite harsh when coming from a muggle perspective – you know, recently some muggle parents came here and asked me about insurance. I told them not to worry – you just need to give it a try.”

“No.” Bilbo takes another sip of his delicious, warm tea and crosses his legs. “The muggles are perfectly right. That game is madness.” And you must be mad to think I’ll join, he adds in his head. Teachers’ Quidditch, really. Who comes up with these things?

But Gandalf just chuckles and Bilbo feels his blood pressure rise. “Oh, I think it might suit you quite fine. Just go to the tryouts, and see if you fit in. Might help you get back into the swing here.”

Bilbo takes a long, calming breath. Term hasn’t even started yet, and he’s already regretting his decision to return to Hogwarts. Just how can Gandalf be this convincing? So far the man has done nothing but smile at Bilbo over the rim of his teacup, a spark in his eyes, and with a sinking feeling Bilbo remembers that Gandalf did not do anything else when he made Bilbo sign the contract.

Teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. At Hogwarts. Only for one year, too, since the position is apparently cursed - not that Gandalf actually answered Bilbo’s question about that, the old coot. Cursing a teaching position seemed indeed fairly absurd, but Bilbo had seen weirder (including being caught up in a muggle tradition called “no-pants-Monday”), and after looking into the fates of the former DADA teachers, he had… well, he had agreed.

Why had he, again?

Gandalf smiles at him. “Just think about it, and maybe go visit the tryouts tomorrow. It might be a great opportunity to get to know your colleagues.”

* * *

 

Perhaps Gandalf has finally discovered a liquid form of the imperius curse, because come next morning Bilbo finds himself walking toward the Quidditch pitch. He has intentionally not brought a broom, nor is he wearing sporty clothes – instead he donned a white shirt, a green waistcoat and a burgundy robe. He hopes his sheer clothing will proclaim his intention to keep his feet on the ground to anybody looking.

It’s not too warm (Scottish summers being what they are), which is rather fitting given that he most certainly is not even going to touch a broomstick. No, he is going to make small talk, get to know his new colleagues, and watch them be reckless. Then he is going to return to his rooms, finish his curriculum, and enjoy a nice cup of tea.

Bilbo enters the pitch to find several people already there – some standing in small groups and chatting, while others are already flying up in the ai. He stops for a moment – it’s been thirty years since he completed his own education here, and it seems that except Gandalf and Professor Binns all the faces have changed. He doesn’t know anybody -

“Ah, Professor Baggins!”

Except Balin Fundinson, who welcomed Bilbo to Hogwarts and oversaw the details of his employment contract (and, in sharp contrast to Gandalf, actually provided answers to several relevant questions).

“Professor Fundinson,” Bilbo greets in return and approaches the group.

“Glad to see you could make it,” Balin says. “But please, call me Balin. We all call each other by our first names – it does rather nicely confuse the students. But let me introduce you to your new colleagues!” He ushers Bilbo toward one of the larger groups.

“Of course not everybody’s here yet. And we’ve not heard anything from Radagast, so I hope I don’t have to find us a new Herbology teacher at the last second.” Somebody chuckles and Bilbo looks around to find that he is – as so often – the shortest person in the vicinity. At least now he can easily visit Gringotts if he needs to feel tall.

“Everybody, this is Professor Baggins. He’s teaching Defense this year.”

“Nice to meet you,” Bilbo says and puts on his most charming smile.

His new colleagues snigger, and he can almost hear the bets being placed. This tiny man – will he even last the entire year? In this cursed position? Has he even any experience with Defense?

“Welcome to Hogwarts, eh,” a man says cheerfully and tips his rather uncommon fur hat at Bilbo. “Bofur, I’m teaching muggle studies.” They shake hands, and then more introductions ensue.

There’s Professor Gloin who teaches Arithmancy and is only here to help out – a wise decision, Bilbo thinks. Professor Dwalin who has the build of a professional wrestler, but teaches Transfiguration, and the very young Charms Professor Fili who proceeds to give Bilbo a very, well, charming smile. His brother Kili is already up in the air, though he gives a short wave as he flies by. Then Bilbo is introduced to Professor Thorin Oakenshield - Hogwarts’ venerated Potions Master.

Who is very, very tall.

Bilbo has to tilt his head backward.

“So you’re the new Defense teacher?” Professor Oakenshield asks, and despite the disdainful tone, his voice sends shivers down Bilbo’s spine. It’s deep, dark and quite fitting for that handsome face with wonderfully bright blue eyes. It’s a shame that such face looks so frowning and distant, though.

Ah! Why, oh why, is this highly attractive man looking at Bilbo like a speck of very annoying dust? This is a bit disheartening, but this might also save Bilbo from any awkward emotional entanglement with colleagues. Which would be very good to avoid indeed. Trying to chase the thoughts, Bilbo resolutely ignores the quickening beatings of his heart.

“Indeed,” he returns smoothly. “Gandalf asked me for a favor. Apparently nobody else was qualified.” Bilbo makes sure to turn his most innocent smile at Thorin, as somebody muffled laughter is heard in the background.

Thorin doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes, it would seem so. Best of luck to you then, Professor Baggins.”

Oh no you don’t, Bilbo thinks and only smiles wider. “I look forward to working with you, too, Professor. Are you trying out for the staff team as well?”

“He’s our vice captain, and he’s our best hope for a seeker right now,” Bofur adds with a snort.

“Really?” Bilbo asks with only half-feigned surprise – Thorin does have the built of a professional athlete, though Bilbo would have imagined him along with Dwalin on a wrestling ring than on a broom. “I was thinking to try out for seeker as well.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” a very tall, red-haired woman interrupts, landing her broom right next to them. She slides off effortlessly, and inclines her head. “Sorry for the delay, I’m Tauriel, the flying instructor, and in charge of this ramshackle team.” She laughs. “Gandalf told me you were a brilliant seeker.”

Thorin’s thrown deepens. Bilbo can practically feel Thorin’s blood pressure rising, so he shakes Tauriel’s hand with an extra portion of enthusiasm. “Oh, I just have an eye for small golden things.”

* * *

 

Later, when Bilbo has folded his burgundy rob and put it aside, he finds himself on a borrowed broomstick hovering high above the Quidditch pitch in his shirt and waistcoat. He realizes that Gandalf likely seeing his wish come true, though how the old codger would have predicted this, Bilbo does not know.

Thorin glares at him from the other side of the pitch, before turning his eyes back to the sky. Why is he even trying out for seeker, Bilbo wonders. He’d obviously cut a much better figure as a beater or a chaser, what with the bulging muscles his tight sporting clothes so nicely reveal.

Then again, Bilbo also should ask himself why he is trying out for seeker, when he had absolutely no intention of even allowing his feet of the ground.

Before he can feels sorry for himself, he spies the familiar blink of gold from the corner of his eye, and the chase is on.

Air rushes past his ears, an old familiar sound, his heart races, and the broom vibrates as he goes faster and faster. The world rushes by, becomes a blur of narrowing lines, and from the corner of his eye he spies Thorin moving, catching a bludger flying his way – and dodging it without breaking a sweat.

Something glimmers again in the distance, and this time he’s sure.

Thorin slows, seemingly confused -  perhaps he’s not seen it yet. Which is good, because he’d be closer, but Bilbo just urges the broom to go a bit faster –

And then the snitch dives.

[Thorin sees it this time, and jerks into motion, but Bilbo just flies past him, squinting against the wind. ](http://ewebean.tumblr.com/post/145789940826/harry-potter-au-where-bilbo-baggins-newly-hired)The air plays in his clothes, ruffles his hair, and it feels so great to have his blood pumping again, and the snitch is close, so close... and Thorin is gaining on him.

The other Professor may have the better broom, but there is a reason Gandalf urged Bilbo onto the team; one that was not necessarily related to getting to know his colleagues. Bilbo leans forward ever so slightly, using his weight to remain in the lead. The snitch heads straight for one of the audience towers, not making any show of slowing down –

A grin slowly spreads over the young man’s face.

Like this, just like this, this is it, this is what’s feeling alive is - d the wind in his hair and the rush in his blood and the sense of elation that fills him as he steers his broom straight toward the obstacle, knowing that everybody watching must think he’s insane.

Thorin slows.

Bilbo is ready the moment the snitch changes its trajectory sharply. Instead of flying into the tower, it shifts its course skywards, but that’s too late, because Bilbo’s fingers close around it while he lets himself fall backwards and forces the broom up with his legs.

For a moment he is utterly weightless, thoughtless, timeless. His knees brush the stiff fabric covering the tower, the gold of the snitch cool in his hand.

Then inertia stops. Bilbo is caught head-down within a backward looping, grinning when he should probably be terrified. But he got this. . One twist to the side and he's out of the looping, upright again, and the metal of the snitch cool against his fingers. With a long-forgotten sort of joy (a type he may have considered himself too old for) he steers his broom into a curve and rather gently glides down back to the field, where everybody is staring at him like he just robbed Gringotts with an electric guitar while riding a double-headed unicorn.

Bilbo self-consciously smooths his hair once his feet touch the ground. He’s not entirely certain what to say (after all, if he’s honest with himself, he only wanted to show up to Thorin. He has no desire at all to  actually join the team) – but that might be too late now. And there's a spark in him, a voice that demands more, that wants to go up and fly again -

Bofur doesn’t even wait to get off his broom to throw his arms around Bilbo, and only Tauriel coming up from behind them keeps them upright. Several other teachers clap, and Bilbo feels his cheeks reddening.

“We’ve got a seeker, captain,” Bofur proclaims cheerfully.

“And wow, is he good,” Kili chimes in. “Have you played professionally?” He asks Bilbo with sparkling eyes.

Bilbo chuckles. “No, not at all.”

“Never mind, Professor Baggins,” Tauriel announces. “You’re still the most qualified person to play seeker here.”

“Ah, you see –“ Bilbo begins, the rational voice in his head urging him to clear up the misunderstanding. This was a fluke, it insists. This shouldn't happen again.

Before he can try and explains himself Thorin interrupt him. “I quite agree,” he says to Tauriel. “I’m sure the Professor won’t let us down.”

Who is he to disagree with that wonderful drawl? Bilbo’s eyes trace the sharp outline of Thorin’s cheekbones, the faint gleam of sweat that disappears right into the long beautiful dark hair which has been tied back into a tight ponytail.

"Alright," Bilbo mumbles without thinking.

“Great! It’s good to have you back to playing beater, Thorin!” Dwalin joins in. “I mean Ori did do really well, but –“

“… it’s not my game,” adds a small man almost dwarfed by his gear. Dwalin laughs and claps his shoulder.

“Thanks for helping us out, Ori,” Tauriel says, and then turns back to them. “But now we have a team! Fili will be our keeper, Thorin and Dwalin beaters. Bofur, Kili, and I will be chasers, and Professor Baggins our seeker! We might actually win this thing!”

Everybody cheers. Bilbo joins him, though he does wonder just what they are looking to win. This is teachers’ Quidditch, some sort of downtime activity to stretch some muscles and get some air, isn’t it?

Nothing competitive, right?

Right?

* * *

 

Astonishing to think that he ever was that small, Bilbo thinks as he watches the first years walk into the Great Hall, their eyes wide with wonder. Tonight, the Hogwarts dining hall is lit by thousands of candles while the ceiling shows the grand night sky outside. There is some magic to it, still, even after thirty years.

“Quarter for your thoughts,” Bofur whispers from next to him.

“They are all so tiny,” Bilbo returns.

Bofur snorts. “Every year. Then again, you’re not so tall yourself, Professor. Don’t think I missed that growing charm on your chair.”

Bilbo grimaces and resolves to put a wordless shrinking charm on Bofur’s chair in retaliation. They need something to pass the time during the sorting ceremony anyway. It grows long indeed, as the delicious scent of food wafts through the hall and waters their mouths.

Balin continues to read out name after name, and by the time they reach the letter “t” Bilbo is contemplating climbing on the table and declaring a mutiny. From the looks of it, the student population would likely join him. Perhaps some of the teachers, too. At last, the sorting ends as Zhang, Weiman joins Hufflepuff and the loud growl of Bilbo’s stomach is swallowed by the loud cheer.

Gandalf rises to his feet, waves for silence.

“Welcome to Hogwarts and to your new houses!” Gandalf says. “Before the feast begins, I have a few announcements to make.”

Somebody groans. Bilbo resolves to look up how many incidents of murder, attempted revolutions, or plain tumult have so far occurred during the opening feast.

“First, the Forbidden Forest is, unsurprisingly, forbidden. Second, as some of you may have heard, this year the  four european Magical Schools have decided to hold a staff Quidditch competition in order to foster cooperation. I hope you will all be there to support your teachers.

And now, without further ado, let the feast begin!”

A dramatic wave of Gandalf’s arm materialises food upon the tables before the old wizard takes his seat.. The students dive for the beef and potatoes like starving men. The staff’s manners aren’t much better. Yet,, Bilbo stares at the food for a long moment, ignoring the growling of his stomach.

This is not a good time to question his own decisions. And he should know better than to expect Gandalf to make sense.

But –

A continent wide Quidditch competition? Played by the teaching staff? Whoever thought fostering academic cooperation through a Quidditch competition - of all things -  was a good idea?

Good thing then, Bilbo realises as his heart sinks low in his chest, that he just signed up for it two days ago, isn’t it? .

“I wonder how far we will get,” Bofur comments airily between two bites. “Didn’t think we stood a chance. Our chasers are good, but without a good seeker... Well, now that you’re here, our chances are better. And I hope we’ll beat at least Beauxbaton.”

Maybe the curse on his position will get Bilbo before the first match. Or, he thinks glumly, maybe this is the result of the curse.

So much for that, Bilbo thinks with ill-boding calm. Well then, better enjoy the food while he can.

* * *

 

His first week of teaching passes without any notable incidents, and he manages not to think about Quidditch for a while. He regularly hears about explosions and mishaps from other classes, but Bilbo has roughly fifteen years of teaching experience and it shows.  While he may be indeed smaller than most of his students, they listen to him from the moment he challenges a particularly cocky fifth-year to attack him.

When the student throws a shaky petrificus his way, Bilbo merely ducks, hooks his foot behind the student’s ankle and trips him.

He does cushion the student’s fall with a wordless charm, but the message is received. “Lesson one,” Bilbo tells his astonished class. “Do not solely rely on magic.”

Bilbo’s resolution to ignore everything Quidditch related only lasts until the second week, when Tauriel greets the staff on Monday morning by announcing a practice schedule. “The house teams will help us out. That way we all can practice at the same time and help each other out.”

With a small sigh into his teacup, Bilbo wonders whether he will have to sacrifice two or three afternoons. He can live with that, he supposes. Flying is nice, after all.

“We will hold joint practice five days a week, and hold a practice match every Sunday. If you have a conference or need to leave the school on a Sunday, please let me know well in advance. We need every player to attend regularly.”

Bilbo’s grip on the teacup loosens abruptly.

Five – six days a week? This is -

“Quite a lot,” he comments, forcing himself to downplay his shock.

“Well, we want to win this thing,” Fili declares with a wide smirk. “So we better practice hard.”

* * *

 

And they do. As the leaves turn red and yellow, Bilbo ends each day by slipping into a set of old, comfortable robes, grab a broom and walk up to the Quidditch Pitch. While hell initially, at some point he becomes used to sore muscles, bruises, and the rush of flying.

It is also, he soon discovers, a very nice distraction from the students.

While the first years are certainly cute, their attention span at times leaves much to be desired; there is nothing that doesn’t make the fourth years giggle; and the seventh years give Bilbo the impression of never having been assigned  required reading before. So while he genuinely likes most of his students, flying after class still provides a very welcome stress relief.

He also connects with his colleagues. Bofur is quickly becoming a fast friend, and Bilbo has shared some interesting conversations with Fili, who is actually very brilliant at charms. They even discuss some possible development in countercharms and joint-teaching in related subjects.

“We could also ask my uncle to assist,” Fili adds while he wipes the sweat from his forehead, as they walk back to the castle with the sun setting behind them.

“Who?” Bilbo asks, watching the long shadows before them, and thinking that soon they’ll be practicing after dark. Winter is near, after all.

“Ahh, Thorin,” Fili chuckles as Bilbo turns to him looking utterly bewildered. “He’s my uncle, and Kili is my brother. I think we’re also distantly related to Balin and Dwalin, but you’d have to ask Balin for the details on that. It’s quite funny that there’s so much family here.”

Bilbo blinks, and nods. “I didn’t know…” he mumbles, and realizes that just how easily challenging Thorin could have worked out quite badly for him.

And then he wonders whether Gandalf has ever heard of the word “nepotism”..

* * *

 

October arrives with stormy winds and grey skies. Flying high above the pitch, Bilbo has to grip his broomstick with both hands to keep steady – and still the rough gusts push him back and forth easily. Not that the Hufflepuff seeker is having a better time. They’re holding a practice match against the yellow-and-black team, and so far the students are in the lead.

Below, the audience cheers – though they’re not quite as numerous this Sunday as the week before. Over his head, the sky darkens further, and Bilbo is unsurprised when the first drops of rain hit him. Of course, his robe isn’t charmed to be water-repellant.

Hopefully the snitch will show up soon. Bilbo reaches up to wipe the water from his face; the rain is coming down harder now.

Another cheer from below – the student chasers have scored again.

Then the Ravenclaw Tower falls surprisingly silent, which Bilbo understands the moment he sees Thorin flying past them. Likely, he is glaring.

However, Fili, Dwalin, Tauriel, and Kili by now all have taken Bilbo aside individually to assure him that no, Thorin’s glares don’t mean anything. It’s just his face – he always looks rather grim. He’s actually a really nice person underneath.

Bilbo shakes his head in lonely resignation. He’s had very little interaction with Thorin, and while he would claim that the man has a way of getting under Bilbo’s skin, it’s not as if Bilbo wasn’t retaliating in kind.

Another blow of wind pushes him aside, and Bilbo ducks close to his broom. Raindrops hit his face hard, and Bofur – flying by – yells at him to “hurry up and end it before everybody drowns!”

His cloak begins to stick to him. Water trickles down his back, his hair clings to his face. And once again Bilbo resolves that this week he will go out and buy decent Quidditch clothes. He’s been in self-denial long enough. If he’s going to be serious about this. It’s time to get equipment before he gets sick.

With the winds buffeting him and his fingers slowly growing cold, Bilbo starts to circle higher and higher. He has to squint against the rain hitting his face, but in this weather the snitch ought to be quite visible. A glimpse to the Hufflepuff seeker shows that he still hovers in the shadow of Gryffindor tower and is watching Bilbo closely.

“… but Professor Durin foils the attack, and now the quaffle has been passed to the other Professor Durin…”

Bilbo sees a glimmer from the corner of his eye. Half-hidden behind the Gryffindor tower, but it’s gold, and Bilbo dives.

“And Professor Baggins is moving – has he seen something?”

Rain and wind hit his face, and his fingers are numb, but he sees the shine of gold again through the rain, and it’s definitely the snitch. The Hufflepuff seeker is closer – or rather was, since he just starts to move right as Bilbo zooms past him, and he’s probably flying too fast for this broom (he really needs to buy better gear).

The wood under his numb fingers shivers; the snitch zigzags ahead; the rain obscures his vision – he narrowly dodges around a fluttering Gryffindor banner, and then the golden ball is there and Bilbo plucks it out of the rainy Scottish sky.

“The snitch has been caught! The game is over! The teachers have won!” the announcer yells, though he does sound more enthusiastic at the prospect of the game being completed rather than at the teachers’ win. Bofur whoops, the Hufflepuff captain flies to Tauriel for a dutiful round of congratulations. Around them, the stands are emptying quickly, and now that Bilbo lands, he realizes that the temperatures dropped sharply since it started raining.

He is utterly soaked, too.

With a shudder he returns the snitch to Tauriel as she collects the equipment and ushers the Hufflepuff team off.

“Warm up!” Fili calls after them. “We’ll sort out the pitch and stuff!” He pushes some loose blond strands back and nods to his teammates. “Best not let them catch a cold. The parents will lynch us.”

“Or sue, if they’re muggles,” Bofur adds cheerfully. Then he looks at Bilbo and his eyes widen. “Mahal’s beard, you’re soaked.”

To his added mortification Bilbo can’t keep his teeth from chattering. “Yes, well…”

“You really need a charmed robe. Weather’s not going to get any warmer here, you know,” Kili helpfully suggests. “And maybe another broom, too. Yours is a bit old, and I know that the folks at Durmstrang won’t be using anything as old as last season.”

“Yes, yes,” Bilbo agrees, and looks up. Dwalin is still flying, chasing the remaining bludgers, while Fili is gearing up to inspect the stands and towers for any incurred damage. Tauriel gathers the returned equipment, and Bilbo wonders if he can just leave –

When a heavy, warm cloak settles around his shoulders.

“Here,” Thorin’s deep voice says right next to his ear. “So you don’t catch a cold between here and the castle.”

Warmth floods Bilbo. The cloak is undeniably well-made, water-repellant, and just everything Bilbo needed. It’s a kind gesture,  and yet, why does this feel so much like Thorin criticizing him?

His heart gives a small pang. But as the adrenalin wears off, Bilbo can’t quite feel angry. Thorin isn’t wrong – and perhaps the others are right and he’s just a little gruff – so  he huddles deeper into the cloak.

“Thanks,” he says to Thorin with a small smile. “I’ll return it later.”

And maybe it’s his imagination – or more likely a residue of match-induced excitement– but a faint hint of red dusts Thorin’s cheeks.

“You’re welcome,” he returns. “Keep it as long as you need it. And now, go. We’ll tidy up.”

* * *

 

Bilbo ends up dreaming of Thorin. Obviously.  This results in him being rather red-faced during breakfast, prompting Tauriel, Bofur, and Fili to wonder whether he may not be coming down with something. Bilbo promises them he’s not.

“That’s good,” Gandalf interrupts, once again only arriving when it suits him. “I just received an owl informing me of the dates for our matches.”

Their surroundings fall rather silent, and the small part of Bilbo that still finds everything here utterly insane starts to scream. But as this part has steadily been shrinking, Bilbo finds it easier to ignore.

“When?” Kili asks enthusiastically. “How is this going to happen?”

Gandalf chuckles. “All schools will be playing against each other once, and the final ranking will be decided by points. So the goals are rather important, too.”

“We won’t let them score,” Dwalin promises darkly. If Bilbo didn’t know better, he’d suspect dark magic or intended sabotage.

“Yes, that would be good,” Gandalf encourages. “Well, we’ll be facing Beauxbaton in early December, and then Koldovstoretz in late Febuary. The final match will be in mid-May against Durmstrang.”

Bilbo swallows. Playing against the student teams is one thing, but against other teachers from other schools in another. They now have dates and names and that  makes this rather more real than he is comfortable with.

“We’ll win this, Gandalf!” Fili promises cheerfully. “We’ll do!”

Bilbo isn’t quite so certain.

The flying instructor at Beauxbatons used to play Quidditch professionally; he also thinks Durmstrang may have at least two or three former players on their staff. This is definitely not going to be easy.

* * *

 

The announcement prompts Tauriel to train them even harder. They now regularly practice their flying after dark, in the rain, even during the first snowfalls of the year. Bilbo’s bones ache and even Thorin expresses some complaints when they limp back to the castle after another hard bout of practice.

“I’m not sure if I’ll actually live to see that game,” Bilbo grumbles. “Not if Tauriel kills us all before.”

Thorin actually snorts. “I’m pretty sure she’ll bring you back just to play them in that case.”

Bilbo shudders. “What a scary thought.”

“Gandalf would likely help,” Thorin helpfully adds, and this time does not hide the small grin playing on his face. It transforms him, Bilbo finds, and the spark in those blue eyes makes his heart skip a beat.

“He would, wouldn’t he.” Bilbo merely shakes his head. The rivalry between Hogwarts and Beauxbaton is long-standing and almost a tradition in its own right. To add fuel to the fire,  it surfaced that Tauriel used to teach at Beauxbaton, before Gandalf offered her a position at Hogwarts.

“How do you know him?” Thorin asks out of the blue and draws Bilbo out of his thoughts.

“Gandalf?” Bilbo returns and on Thorin’s nod continues. “He actually used to be a good friend of my mother’s. Well, he was around a lot, and then I went to Hogwarts.” He shrugs. “I suppose we never truly lost touch.”

Especially as Gandalf never lost his habit of showing up out of the blue. Each and every time, it ended with Bilbo doing something he had not planned to, if not altogether refused. Maybe this was also a sort of tradition...

“How did you get to know him?” Bilbo asks Thorin.

The other man stiffens, and Bilbo realizes belatedly that it may not have been the wisest of questions. If he has pegged things right, Thorin is roughly eight years his senior – which means he was still at school during the height of the second wizarding war, while Bilbo was happily hidden away at the family estate.

“The war,” Thorin offers with a small sigh. “My family … lost everything. Gandalf offered us a way out.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

Thorin shrugs. “It’s all a long time in the past now.”

Not that long, Bilbo thinks.

“And we got out alright in the end. Settled in England and did rather well for ourselves,” Thorin adds. “My father used to insist we needed to go back to our homeland. Maybe one day we will. But for now this is home, I suppose.”

Bilbo swallows, not quite certain what to say. His own life experience so far has been quite different – despite all the places he has seen, the knowledge he has collected, and the experiences he gained, it can’t possibly amount to anything Thorin has been through. “I think Gandalf has that habit of bringing people to places they didn’t know they needed to be.”

Thorin smiles at his attempt at levity. “Would you agree?”

Bilbo shrugs. “I still don’t know why I signed that contract, but I can’t say I’m regretting it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The term continues. There are trolls, a match and the Yuleball.

Bilbo may not exactly regret signing the teaching contract, but he comes close to it when during another practice match he takes a bludger to the shin and ends up hobbling around for the remainder of the week. The responsible Ravenclaw beater tiptoes around Bilbo, which makes defense class rather entertaining from the teacher’s point of view: somehow the Ravenclaw students seem to expect him to hex them.

He doesn’t, and life continues as normal as it gets at a magical school where even the staff plays Quidditch.

That is until, shortly after Halloween, the giant groundskeeper bursts through the doors of the great hall during dinner in an obvious uproar. Everybody looks up, Bilbo stops chewing, and Beorn stops short of the headmaster's place as Gandalf’s seat is empty. Of course, Bilbo just has time to think before pandemonium erupts, the old wizard couldn’t possibly be around when one actually needs him.

“Trolls!” Beorn exclaims to the whole hall. “Three of them! They’re headed for the castle!”

Bilbo is certainly no expert on protocol in these circumstances, yet he would not have expected "causing panic" to be the best course of action. A second-year Ravenclaw boy promptly starts screaming and he rest of the school quickly joins in. Somebody throws an apple, somebody starts running, a table overturns. Trolls are notoriously ill-tempered, constantly hungry, and can’t be stopped, Bilbo contemplates as he stares at his rapidly cooling food. They’ve been known to flatten houses, entire villages.

“Calm!” Balin shouts, his voice amplified. A nervous silence falls over the great hall, the food entirely forgotten. Bilbo purses his lips as foreboding assails him. Balin casts a short glance to Beorn - promising talk - and then looks to the students, but is promptly interrupted before he can even open his mouth.

“You will stop them, will you, Professor?” a teary-looking first-year student asks tearfully.

“Of course we will,” Dwalin declares as he rises to his feet and begins to roll up the sleeves of his robe, looking about to storm outside and wrestle the trolls into submission.

“But Professor,” a sixth-year student interrupts, “Trolls are immune to spells.”

Dwalin frowns. “We will stop them anyway.” He seems determined to try and to stop them with his bare hands if need be, and Bilbo admires his courage, but really –

“To most spells, yes,” he speaks up and stands up as well, as calmly as he can, wondering why exactly is he volunteering himself to face off against  _ trolls  _ of all things. They should set up a barrier and wait for Gandalf. This is his school, his job!

“Sunlight!” one of Bilbo’s third-years exclaims, her eyes widening with sudden realization. “They turn to stone under the sun!”

“Exactly,” Bilbo comments. It seems at least one student did their assigned reading this week.

“But it’s after sunset, Professor!” her friend adds.

“There are spells! Sunlight charms! Professor Durin?”

Fili produces an awkward smile from where he still sits. “I’m afraid those aren’t powerful enough.”

“Then what –“

“There is a potion,” Bilbo cuts in, as this wasn’t in the textbook, “Which also turns trolls into stone. It works somewhat differently and is considered rather complicated, but I’m certain Professor Oakenshield is capable of brewing it.”

Thorin gives a sharp nod while eyeing Bilbo thoughtfully. “Naturally.”

“Great,” Bilbo exclaims with forced cheer. “If you don’t mind, Professor, I’ll be waiting for the potion.”

Dwalin looks at Bilbo with a frown. “And what will you be doing?”

“Stall them.”

Which is madness, really. Bilbo should have never spoken up. But hey, it’s only trolls. Not like a dragon or anything.

* * *

“What is he doing?” Thorin asks, as he charms the knife to cut the mandrake root into exact squares. The potion Bilbo demanded is indeed rather complicated – but not to a man of Thorin’s skill. He pivots on his heel, speaks the cooling charm at precisely the right moment, and then walks over to his cupboard to retrieve the wereworm larva.

Meanwhile, Balin  is supervising the cutting of the  silver onions   as well as maintaining a spying spell that gives them a clear view of the events unfolding at the border of the forest. From the look of it, they are having a good time.

“They’ve apparently decided to have dinner,” Balin announces.

Thorin blinks and risks a glance to the wall that has been turned into a temporary viewing screen. Indeed, a merry fire burns in front of the forest, surrounded by three trolls and one tiny, tiny Professor.

“Really,” he comments, stirring the ladle clockwise three times.

“Yes,” Balin adds with a sighs. “I’m afraid we’ll have a vegetarian breakfast tomorrow.”

On the screen, a procession of house-elves is ferrying crates and baskets of meat toward the crackling fire. The trolls gesture animatedly, though Bilbo apparently makes sure the meat goes into the oversized cauldron before them and not directly into their mouths.

He is also gesturing animatedly, though the sounds don’t carry through the spell. The trolls look sufficiently entertained, however, and soon sit down around the cauldron, waiting for the promised dinner. The house elves warily tiptoe to and fro from the cauldron, quickly dumping their stores and then immediately distancing themselves – lest they be turned into a troll snack.

Bilbo appears to have no such worries, though Thorin wonders if the professor may not be a little overconfident. Then again, the younger man has no choice if he intends to delay the trolls in their progression until Thorin has completed the potion.

With this in mind, he tries to brew a little faster.

* * *

Instead of handing the potion to a house elf, Thorin grabs a cloak and marches across the grounds himself. The air is quite cold, nearly freezing and the grass glints wetly. He soon sees the fire shine casting dancing shadows over Hogwarts’ lawns. As he grows closer, he starts to hear the trolls’ twisted laughter.

A shudder runs down his back and he ruthlessly ignores the little voice that urges him to walk quickly into the other direction. Or at least walk past the trolls, apparate to London, get Gandalf and demand he deals with it. He’s the headmaster after all; he should be the one dealing with this emergency.

But no: while Balin is desperately trying to locate Gandalf, it’s their undersized Defense teacher who has decided to take on the trolls. And – testament to his own brilliant decision-making skills – Thorin is going to help him.

Merlin help them all!

Thorin resolves to quit if he lives to see the end of term. (He usually resolves to do this around five to ten times a year, so this is sadly proving utterly normal).

“Oh, hello Thorin!” Bilbo calls out with forced cheer as he notices Thorin approaching. The other teacher looks rather pale, and this is only enhanced as one of the trolls, enthusiastically chanting “Food! Food! Food!”, only barely misses taking Bilbo’s head off.

Thorin walks faster.

“What’s it that he has?” one of the trolls asks.

Bilbo turns a wide smile toward them. “The special ingredient! It will make the stew taste fantastic!”

“Yes! Yes!” another trolls cheers. “Get a move on!”

Thorin merely nods, steps up to the gigantic cauldron and pours the concoction in. “Here you go,” he exclaims, trying to sound at least a little cheerful.

The first troll eagerly reaches for one of the lamb legs in the stew, but another one stops him before he can take a bite. “How do we know it’s good?” he asks. “How do we know you’re not tricking us?”

Thorin takes a step back, fear rushing through his veins. Not that it’s much use – the troll only needs to reach out to smash him, but at least the stench isn’t quite so bad.

“Ahaha, we’re not, I promise,” Bilbo laughs, a hint of desperation in his voice. “Thorin is an excellent potion maker! He’d never give you something wrong!”

“Hmm, you try it first!” Troll the second suggests.

“Oh, sure!” Bilbo immediately exclaims, but he does look to Thorin from the corner of his eye. Thorin can immediately read the question there, and ever so subtly mouths “no”. Which may be a tad bit too optimistic – because while the brew won’t kill a human, it will still leave them feeling tired, exhausted, and in rare cases with bad stomach cramps.

Bilbo takes an enthusiastic bite out of a smaller piece of lamb from the stew, chews and grins up at the trolls. “See, it’s great. And it’s all for you!”

It’s all it takes for the trolls to pounce on their meal.

* * *

Roughly twenty minutes later, the content of the cauldron is gone and the trolls have been turned into stone. Bilbo sits on the grass, his brow wrinkled.

“It won’t kill me, will it?”

“No,” Thorin shakes his head as he walks over to his colleague. “You’ll probably feel stiff or weak tomorrow, so you should take the day off.”

He holds out a hand to help Bilbo up, but the other grimaces and shows no intention to get up. “My stomach doesn’t feel too good. Is that also an effect?”

“I’m afraid it is. But I have something for that.” And since Bilbo isn’t moving at all, Thorin crouches down, snakes an arm around his shoulder and pulls him up. A whimper escapes from Bilbo’s lips, and Thorin resolves to give him something strong for the pain.

After all, Thorin could have eaten the meat as well . It might have been the most sensible choice, as he has built up a resistance to many potions. “You’ll be quite fine, you see,” he assures Bilbo who is growing paler with each passing moment. “Don’t worry.”

“… my insides feel as if they are dissolving,” Bilbo mumbles.

“They won’t.”

“Are you sure you haven’t  just mixed this up to get rid of both the trolls and me?”

Ah, Thorin clinically registers, lessened inhibitions. A very rare side effect to the pureed warg liver. The castle seems impossibly far away – and their swaying pace seems not bring them any closer.

“No,” he tells Bilbo. “You’ll be fine.”

“… but this would be working out for you,” Bilbo insists. “You wanted my job and my position…”

“I wanted neither,” Thorin corrects with a small huff. “But after the series of imbeciles Gandalf hired, I was a bit skeptical. I never wanted to play seeker either. I’m still not sure what I’m doing on that team, especially as vice-captain.”

Bilbo chuckles drunkenly, though it dissolves into a pained groan. “You’re doing good,” he slurs. “So dedicated… dreamy…”

Before Thorin can inquire what on earth that meant, Bilbo’s knees give out. With a last sigh Bilbo relinquishes his hold on consciousness and grows limp in Thorin’s arms, who would have compared it to suddenly finding himself holding a sack of potatoes.

(The onlooking students, he later learns, rather saw an elegant swooning and a dashing rescue. They all need glasses).

* * *

Gandalf excuses Bilbo from his classes for two days. Tauriel is not so lenient.

“You’ll be back tomorrow,” she tells Bilbo over dinner that night. “Dead or alive.”

Bilbo, who still looks slightly off-color, merely nods. “Yes, yes,” he murmurs. “Finish what you started.”

Thorin wonders just how much of their strange conversation Bilbo remembers. Now is probably not a good time to bring it up – not  within their colleagues and the majority of the student population’s ear range .

The trolls are shipped back to the depth of the Scottish wilderness, where they are unfrozen. After all, Gandalf argues, trolls are a rare species nowadays, and he’s rather glad Bilbo and Thorin found a solution that didn’t involve killing them.

Bilbo does show up on the practice pitch as demanded, and from then  life returns to normal, or at least as normal as it gets at a magical school.

Halloween comes and passes, the leaves turn from gold to brown. Snowfall mixes into the rain, and in the early morning hours Thorin wakes to find the grounds covered with frost. Hogsmeade is getting ready for Christmas, and the first decorations are put up in the castle.

Their team is now seriously preparing to face Beauxbatons.

There are three weeks left, then ten days. Then five, then one, and then, one overcast morning, the Beauxbatons team, accompanied by their vice headmaster, apparates to the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

“Lady Galadriel sends her greetings,” vice headmaster Thranduil tells Gandalf. “She was regrettably busy, but will try to attend the next game.”

Pity, Thorin thinks. He’s only met Galadriel once, and while rumors describe her as frighteningly powerful, he found her pleasing to deal with. Thranduil, however, he has had ample contact with. A fellow potions master, he’s more than once ripped apart Thorin’s papers. Thorin has since returned the favor and just barely stops himself from growling when Thranduil looks at him.

* * *

Later, when they’re walking toward the pitch, Bilbo can’t help but ask: “You seemed on familiar terms with their vice-headmaster… is there anything I need to know?”

The entire team turns as one.

“He’s a terrible potions master,” Thorin grumbles.

“No taste,” Dwalin adds.

“He’s such a ponce,” Fili complains.

“He’s an administrative nightmare and he drinks too much,” Tauriel declares with vehemence.

“His … hair annoys me?” Kili offers.

Bofur chuckles at Bilbo’s dumbfounded expression. “His son is alright though.”

Bilbo blinks. He’s heard of teams chanting things to fire themselves up before a game – apparently he accidentally invoked this simply by asking about Thranduil. The man d appeared neither drunk nor all that bad, and Bilbo doesn’t entirely understand how hair can be annoying, but he knows better than to ask.

Instead he turns to Bofur. “His son?”

“Yes, he’s on the team. As are the sons and the daughter of French Interior Minister Elrond, “ Bofur cheerfully explains.

Nepotism, Bilbo thinks again. Has anybody in the magical world even heard of it?

* * *

He doesn’t have long to wonder:  he finds himself soon enough in the air. The students are shouting and cheering, though it’s not entirely clear whose side they are on. If Hogwarts wins, they’ll get to celebrate, if Beauxbatons wins, there may be cancelled classes ahead.

A whoosh warns him just in time to duck. One of the Beauxbatons beaters calls out a cheerful “sorry” in Bilbo’s direction, before battering the bludger straight back down. Toward the audience.

How about cancelled classes because the students are all in the hospital wing? He doesn’t think it has happened before, but having once again returned to Hogwarts’ interesting understanding of student safety, Bilbo has his doubts.

“Beauxbaton scores!”

Bilbo casts a glance down at the rather unfortunate score board and sighs. Their team is good, but Beauxbatons may just be ever so slightly better.

Well, really.

They’re teachers. Professionals. They shouldn’t even be on brooms.

“Bilbo, I really think you need to find the snitch.” Bofur flies up next to him. “Ideally before Thorin hits the bludger at Thranduil, before Thranduil hexes Thorin and we have a declaration of war on our hands.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to protest. They are all adults. They are schools, not sovereign states. They cannot declare –

But Bofur has vanished. Now he’s catching the quaffle from Tauriel,  looping on his broom before, passing the ball to Kili. Bilbo’s gaze wanders over to Thorin, who is flying rather close to the Beauxbaton’s tribune. Thranduil is there, with his hand hidden under his robe, but Bilbo would bet a month’s worth of his  salary that he’s clutching his wand.

“Duck!” somebody shouts, and the bludger soars past him, though the Beauxbaton chaser does not and crashes into him.

The world spins; Bilbo clutches his broom, trying desperately to reestablish his balance when he sees it. A short blink of gold, almost hidden behind the Gryffindor tower, but Bilbo’s world spins further and he faces the ground instead of pursuing it immediately. It was there, he knows, and when he glances aside the Beauxbaton seeker still hovers high above the goal posts, gazing across the pitch.

Bilbo doesn’t wait for his broom to steady itself. Still mid-spin, he pushes forward, flattening himself against the broomstick. The wind rushes past him, his pulse quickens, the world blurs. He spies the glint again, this time longer, as the snitch zigzags behind the same gold and crimson tribune.

He gains speed, passes the audience close enough for them to feel a brush of his robe, but he doesn’t notice.  The broom vibrates under his fingers, the world narrowing into a tunnel.

The snitch makes a sharp turn, flying back toward the field.

And this time the other seeker doesn’t miss it. The Beauxbaton player blasts into action, racing forward, and now both seekers are roughly the same distance from the snitch. It changes directions again, moving straight up and Bilbo follows immediately, pulling his broom up at an angle that no sane person would ever risk flying at, but Bilbo sees only the snitch before him – just an arm's’ length away -

Bilbo’s hand closes around the snitch.

In the next second Beauxbaton’s seeker slams into him from the side. Bilbo is thrown sideways, brain scrambling to follow as his fingers lose their grip on the broom’s handle. For a moment he is weightless, triumph still in the back of his mind, the snitch caught securely in his hand –

Then time catches up with him and he is falling. His broom hovering uselessly above, completely out of reach, and the other seeker stares after him in horror, and somebody is screaming, and Bilbo’s mind won’t work, just won’t react, it just won’t. He needs a spell, a charm, needs to stop falling, because if he hits the ground from this height, he’ll –

He crashes into something.

Instead of his bones breaking, the ground shakes a little; they sway. An arm closes around Bilbo, draws him against a wide chest.

Astonished, Bilbo opens his eyes to find Thorin Oakenshield looking down at him. His heart skips a beat, and he can’t help but notice how warm Thorin is and how he can feel the muscles of his arm and chest against his own body, and oh –

“Hogwarts has won! Bilbo Baggins caught the snitch!” the announcer booms and belatedly Bilbo recalls they were in the middle of a game. Thorin gently descends the broom, as all other players return to the ground as well.

Bilbo holds up the snitch for everyone to see, and in the stands the students clap and cheer.

Even Thorin gives him a small smile. Immediately, the victory makes Bilbo so much happier that the world around him seems to glow.

Of course this means his knees nearly buckle the moment his feet touch the grass. At least Thorin has kept a steady grip on his waist and keeps him upright.

“Let Oin check you out,” he tells Bilbo, before managing to stop Bofur and Fili and Kili from tackling the seeker in their victory celebration. “Careful, careful, he took quite a beating there!”

“But that was a brilliant catch!” Kili exclaims. “If we continue like this, we’ll win this thing!”

“Yes, yes,” Bilbo chuckles, while he gladly relinquishes the snitch to the referee. His head is hurting a little, though whether the dizziness stems from the mid-air collision or Thorin’s proximity, he doesn’t quite know.

“Congrats, and sorry for hitting you there,” the Beauxbaton seeker calls over from where he is collecting his own broom. Thorin glares at him, but Bilbo waves.

“It’s quite alright.”

He smiles to himself, feeling unduly cheerful, light and happy, even though his body throbs with exhaustion and he likely will be sporting some nice bruises tomorrow. Around him everybody cheers; even the students are celebrating, and their opponents are taking their loss in good humor.

It’s a great day.

“Can you walk?” Thorin asks him, quietly, and Bilbo abruptly realizes Thorin still bears the most of his weight. He tries to steady himself, though a wave of dizziness cuts the attempt short.

“To be honest, I’m not entirely certain,” Bilbo admits with a small chuckle. The mid-air collision was slightly rougher than he thought, which may also explain why he is so strangely happy. Thorin looks fantastic with his hair coming loose from his ponytail – Bilbo just folds against his chest again. It’s warm and solid, and Bilbo feels like just closing his eyes for a moment.

* * *

His passing out earns Bilbo two days of bed rest, some very sympathetic colleagues, and the attention of the entire student population, which is now  focused on Thorin and him. Apparently, Thorin carrying him out of the pitch left a rather lasting impression… as did the entire game.

And the Yuleball is in a week.

“So, have you asked Thorin yet?” Bofur inquires.

Bilbo is tempted to flicker his forkful of mashed potato at him, but settles for rolling his eyes. “Why would I?”

“The students think you look cute together,” Bofur cheerfully tells him. “Really, they’d be utterly disappointed if you didn’t turn up for the Yuleball together.”

Bilbo grimly bites down on his potatoes. “The students have no taste.”

* * *

Bilbo attempts to distract the students with homework, but they will not be dissuaded. Instead, three of them even suggest a dueling club – and certainly, Professor Oakenshield would make a great co-instructor.

“I’ll think about it,” Bilbo promises.

The problem with thinking about it is imagining Thorin in dueling robes with his hair tied back, looking all serious and determined. Bilbo bites down on his lower lip. Well, now that is a very nice image. He doesn’t feel disinclined at all.

But first there is the Yuleball - naturally all teachers are expected to be present.

* * *

It does look rather elegant, Dwalin has to admit. Thorin and Bilbo both do know the moves, gliding with grace on the dancefloor. Only, what they are doing is perhaps not actually  _ dancing _ .

It rather reminds Dwalin of two stubborn buggers fighting for the lead.

Bilbo forces Thorin to twirl. In return Thorin simply lifts Bilbo off the ground. Some of the students have begun to imitate them.

Well, Dwalin thinks as he takes another chocolate cookie, at least everybody is having the time of their lives. Perhaps the Yuleball is not quite proceeding as expected, but it’s nonetheless a grand party. 

It may also have something to do with the spiked punch. Dwalin isn’t certain whether one of the students did it or if Bofur himself procured the alcohol. (Judging by the strength of the brew, several parties may have acted independently).

In any case, teachers and students are spinning, the band is singing, and there is a good chance his first class tomorrow morning will be mostly empty.

“Wanna bet if Thorin’s bed’s gonna be empty tomorrow?” Nori suggests, turning up at Dwalin’s elbow. Out of nowhere like he is wont to, though after years Dwalin no longer jumps at the caretaker’s appearance. 

Dwalin snorts. “How would we know?”

Nori smirks. “The portraits have already made their wagers.”

* * *

Bilbo feels giddy and happy  as he keeps a firm hold on Thorin’s hand and leads him up the Astronomy Tower. Somewhere in the back of his nicely numbed brain , he realizes they are acting utterly ridiculous, but he finds himself strictly  unable to care.. The staircase spirals as does his mind and his heart spins with every beat as behind him Thorin keeps a solid, warm grip on Bilbo’s fingers.

And this isn’t right – they’re sneaking away from the Yuleball like unruly adolescents – but Thorin sports a bright, happy smile, a flush on his cheeks, and to Bilbo that is all that matters right now.

Of course, the moment they reach the top of the tower, Bilbo almost crashes into two of their students who – from the mussed clothes – have been doing more than enjoying the stars.

“Professors!” one of them exclaims, her voice high-pitched.

“Miss Ludson. Miss Zimmerman.” Thorin looks at them strictly. “I believe the tower is off limits.”

“Yes, Professor. We’re sorry.” Miss Ludson declares. Her friend pushes her forward. “We’re already leaving. You have fun!”

They disappear around the corner and Bilbo stares after them for a moment. Did they really just –

“Students aren’t what they used to be,” he says with a shake of his head and follows Thorin to the balustrade. Before them Hogwarts’ nightly grounds stretch until they meet the dark forest. They spread all the way to the horizon, framed by hills under a dark, starry sky. “What happened to respect?”

A cold gust of wind billows past them, and Bilbo shivers and steps closer to Thorin

Thorin shrugs. “I don’t know.” He turns away from the landscape; the starlight brings out the grey in his hair and Bilbo’s heart skips a beat. Thorin looks down to Bilbo and they are so close that Bilbo has to tilt his head back .

“But I think the students may have been right about this.”

Bilbo feels a smile spreading over his face. “I think they may.” And with that he rises up on the tips of his toes and presses his lips onto Thorin’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, that's what I have - I may add more, but probably not very soon. I hope you enjoyed it, and you could always bludger me on [tumblr](www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com). Then again, feel always free to just take this AU set up and make it your own!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The normal, everyday life at a magical school. Featuring the aftermath of the Yuleball, student shenanigans, teacher shenanigans, and the third Quidditch game with an unexpected outcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I initially decided to be done after two chapters, it was too much fun to leave alone. So I'm posting the last two chapter as part of the Big Bang - which means there will be art to accompany this!
> 
> [Diamond](http://diamond-skeleton.tumblr.com) drew an amazing [poster featuring Bilbo and Thorin in their teaching robes. It's awesome - check it out](http://diamond-skeleton.tumblr.com/post/144662360511/double-double-toil-and-trouble-by)!  
> Also [seaweedredandbrown](http://seaweedredandbrown.tumblr.com) was a darling and agreed to beta this!

The morning after the Yuleball,  Bilbo wakes up with a headache, or rather two.

There’s a figurative headache, resulting from kissing Thorin - a _colleague_ , admittedly good-looking, but a colleague nevertheless - on top of the Astronomy Tower like some lovesick teenager. In front of lovesick teenagers, too; Bilbo knows better than to believe the students they sent back actually obeyed.

Then there’s the more literal headache that probably results from the punch. If Bilbo thought it might have been spiked the night before, this morning is all the confirmation he needs. . He distinctly remembers Gandalf taking the first sip - so the old coot knew and still let _both_ students and staff get drunk.

He really should make a formal complaint, Bilbo thinks. But then, said complaint would be addressed to the very  school board that brought them staff Quidditch in the first place, so he doubts it would get very far. Especially since they might point out that snogging atop the Tower is perhaps not best instructor behavior either.

The oil-painted cock crows again, and with a groan Bilbo turns over, wondering if the rest of the staff members has been blessed with similar paintings. He doesn't want to get up and face the world.

And since the students will be leaving today, he might actually get away with it.

But then a knock comes at the door, and the subject of the portrait serving as his lookout (supposedly the great King Isildur, but Bilbo harbors doubts) excitedly frolics into the landscape painting decorating Bilbo’s bedroom wall. (To think he had picked landscapes for a reason. Nothing is safe in this school – he is certain that if he had left the walls bare Gandalf would somehow invent moving graffiti).

“Oh, Master Baggins,” probably-not-Isildur announces, his cheeks bright red. “It’s that brooding Potions teacher from last night. You know, the one from the Tower – Maeglin’s portrait told me all about it – and my, he wasn’t lying, that _is_ one handsome man. I mean I know Maeglin likes to have a peek into the baths, but my oh my, I really should have followed him. Oh, and I’ll let him in, Master Baggins. Make good use of this opportunity.”

With a wiggle of his oil-painted eyebrow, the portrait wanders off again. Bilbo remains sitting half-upright in his bed, mind spinning, still in his rather unflattering pajamas. Then the door opens, and he can hear the traitorous portrait say:

“… and the bedroom is right this way, please just go in, the Master is expecting you.”

Merlin’s beard, Bilbo is going to _vandalize_ this portrait!

He jumps from the bed, reaches for a random robe and manages to stumble out of his bedroom just before Thorin can follow the portrait’s dubious instructions. His hurry nearly slams him right into Thorin’s chest,  the door bouncing off the wall with a loud thud behind him.

“Bilbo, are you –“

“Thorin, I-“

They both stop, not more than a hand’s breadth from each other. Bilbo has to tilt his head up. A his age, his muscles certainly don’t like this much movement fresh out of bed... Unlike his heart, which is speeding up at the sight of Thorin’s bright blue eyes.

Said Thorin clears his throat. “I’m sorry if this is a bad time,” he begins, visibly wavering between taking a step back and simply staying where he is. His cheeks, if Bilbo is not mistaken, sport a faint dusting of color as well.

“I was, well. I meant to see if you were alright. That punch last night did apparently not agree with Kili at all, so I was just stopping by,” Thorin’s cheeks grow even redder as he awkwardly stumbles through his words.

And Bilbo abruptly realizes that no, last night was not a one-off thing fueled by hormones, alcohol, and a lack of inhibitions. His heart warms as he observes Thorin, discovering that gentle person hidden behind the proud posture and the scowling face.

Bilbo smiles. “I could ask the same, but seeing as you are here, fully dressed, and I’m the one still in my nightgown, I’m afraid the answer is obvious. But I’m not too bad, honestly. Is Kili going to be alright?”

“Honestly?” Thorin grumbles good-naturedly. “I think he’s playing it up so he can have a lie-in and be doted on.”

Bilbo, upon realizing what this probably means in light of the nature of Kili’s and Tauriel’s relationship, feels his blood rise to his face. “That, oh…” he shrugs and manages a small grin. “I guess that’s quite fine for him?”

“He’s certainly enjoying it,” the utterly unhelpful portrait chimes in.

Thorin’s shoulders slump “I didn’t need to…”

“Please leave. Now.” Bilbo’s tone allows for no arguments, so  the painted figure leaves the frame – though not-Isildur’s expression does not appear chastised at all.

“I’m sorry about my portrait,” Bilbo offers.

Thorin snorts. “You don’t want to know what mine was saying to me earlier.”

“We should inform Gandalf of their voyeuristic tendencies,” Bilbo suggests, exasperated, before seeing the futility of his suggestion.  “He’s not going to do anything, is he?”

Thorin shrugs. “At this point I’m not sure if anything can be done. But I found a very thorough home renovation every now and then to be quite helpful.”

Bilbo looks to the number of picture frames in his quarter. They allow a practically complete view of the room and leave no corner obscured. He nods slowly. “That sounds like a plan… But I suppose a bit late now.”

Heat creeps up his neck and a blush spreads over his cheeks. He hadn’t intended on becoming gossip material for the entire school – including the ghosts, the portraits, and, at this point, probably the giant squid as well.

Thorin shrugs. “They’ll find something else to talk about soon. It’s not exactly a national news item, is it?”

* * *

 

Bilbo finds out that Thorin is utterly wrong during breakfast. If any student did not know so far, [the picture printed on page 23](http://mithrilbikini.tumblr.com/post/145124058107/eyyyy-heres-my-art-for-paranoidfridges) (at least it’s  on the front page, but that is an exceedingly tiny consolation) does not allow for any confusion.

“A clandestine affair: Prince Oakenshield of Erebor and Britain’s eleventh wealthiest bachelor Bilbo Baggins spotted kissing on Hogwarts’ Astronomy Tower.”

Below that extravagant title,  Bilbo and Thorin kiss never endingly in a moving picture. From an aesthetic point of view the picture is beautifully composed, though the lightning may be a little dramatic and overexposed. With the stars sparkling over their heads, it seems right out of a fairy tale.

“You didn’t tell me you were rich,” Thorin comments from his seat next to Bilbo with one eyebrow raised.

Bilbo casts a glare into his direction. “You didn’t tell me you were royalty.”

“Yes, yes,” Gandalf idly comments (because he _has_ to walk along the table exactly at this particular moment). “Having a longer conversation will probably help. How fortunate that Christmas break starts today. You’ll have all the time in the world to talk.”

“Or _not_ to talk,” Bofur cheerfully adds, making an unmistakable gesture with his cutlery that should really not be used in front of their students. “You know, sometimes it’s not about talking, sometimes you have to let your –“

“Bofur, if you do not kindly stop at this I’m afraid I will have to transfigure you into a goat,” Bilbo threatens.

“Oh, have you finally worked that out?” Gandalf, that old traitor, asks innocently. “I remember that type of transformation used to give you so much trouble.”

“You too, Gandalf. You’ll be a teacup,” Bilbo announces flatly. “And I still don’t know how to do it. So Bofur, you may end up a two-headed goat and Gandalf could be a teacup with legs.”

“Actually, we still need the headmaster,” Tauriel interrupts, marching up to both Bilbo and Thorin with a thick roll of parchment under her arm. “Once we win the cup, I’ll help you with that transfiguration, though.”

The look she casts at Gandalf makes Bilbo wonder what the headmaster did to rile her up. Or get her on the staff.

She puts down the parchments before her colleagues’ plates. “This is our practice plan. We will be using the break to train even harder! One session in the morning, one in the afternoon! And I wrote down some exercises you can do before bed."

Bilbo takes one of the plans, his brow creasing as the parchment unfolds.

"Some of us," Bofur begins tentatively, "have family they'd like to visit over the holidays."

"Tell them to come here," Tauriel replies instantly. "Gandalf already gave his agreement, and it's not as if there wasn't empty rooms in Hogwarts." The aforementioned Gandalf cheerfully beams at them from under his bushy grey eyebrows.

Well, Bilbo thinks,  at least this year he will have an excuse to avoid Lobelia's Christmas luncheon.

* * *

 

Despite their rather public outing, no angry howlers from conservative wizard parents arrive during the next few days. Bilbo had expected an angry letter from Lobelia – she always writes a few days prior to Christmas - yet this year Otho has added more to his standard Christmas dinner invitation.

“Congratulations, and please feel free to bring a plus one (though let us know ahead of time).”

Bilbo lets the meaning of the letter sink  in . Apparently, times have truly changed.

“What are you thinking about?” Thorin inquires. It’s a little after lunch and they are mostly alone in the hall, except for a few students and professors.

“Back when I was at school, the parents would have torn us apart,” Bilbo states with a shrug. “They’d have …” He shrugs again, recalling all too well what some of his friends endured being called in public.

Thorin hums. “I wouldn’t exactly call the magical community progressive, and we may yet get some interesting feedback,” he says. “But then again, these things do not appear all that important compared to sentient books or spaceships.”

Bilbo nods. And then catches Thorin’s odd emphasis on the word _spaceships_. “Do you go to the Muggleworld a lot?”

“I used to,” Thorin replies. “But that was, two decades ago, I think?”

“Maybe we could go,” Bilbo starts before he can think better of what he is suggesting. “I know quite a few places, and there is that lovely Indian place that does the best ...”

A small smile blooms on Thorin’s face. It transforms his entire expression so much that a straggling nearby Gryffindor student abruptly starts coughing.

“Like a date?” Thorin asks, his cheeks flushed pink.

Bilbo’s genes do not blush a dainty maiden pink – he goes bright tomato red. “Y-yes. That is, if you want to?”

Maybe they should have talked about it this earlier. Or elsewhere. Definitely not here, where the entire remaining student population, the faculty, the ghosts and the portraits are doing their best to surreptitiously listen.

Thorin clears his throat. “Sure. I just … sorry, dating sounds like something I think my students do.”

“Oh dear, it does,” Bilbo chuckles. “But then again, after the Tower episode I feel that if we’re already acting like students, we might just continue.”

“Acting like students?” Bofur interrupts loudly. “Sleeping in? Skipping class? Not doing homework? Sign me up!”

* * *

 

And so the holidays whirl by. Tauriel has them out on the Quidditch Pitch every day, twice a day. Fili starts an early morning warm-up running team and Bilbo can only marvel at the insanity that appears to have gripped them all.

Himself included, he acknowledges, as he trots along next to Thorin as the sun has barely risen and snow crunches under their feet. It’s a nice way of exploring the forbidden forest, Bilbo thinks. Until, one morning Kili leads them straight past the winter quarter of a colony of giant spiders.

Giant, hungry spiders.

They all run very fast after that, and are more than warmed up for their practice.

The following day, Bofur drives them to a rather disgruntled and sleepy bear. Bilbo’s own attempt at steering the team sees them straight to bee territory and the fact that bees are not supposed to be active in Scotland in the middle of winter does not faze this particular bee species very much.

Bilbo has to persuade himself not to simply end this entire forest with a nicely cast friendlyfire. It would be so much more satisfying than casting harmless protection charm and repellant charm after stunning charm.

Sadly enough, he thinks, Gandalf would probably disagree.

“How about you lead today?” Bilbo says to Thorin the following morning, and everybody on the team promptly shakes their heads. Even Thorin grimaces.

“I’d rather not,” he says in a manner that begets many, many questions.

“The last time uncle lead us somewhere,” Fili begins.

“We ended up at some volcano,” Kili completes the sentence.

From their expressions Bilbo doubts even they know the whole story, and when he looks to Thorin, the Potion’s teacher merely shrugs. “I was only following directions.”

In order to not accidentally discover any active volcanoes in Scotland, Dwalin takes the lead for their morning run. He runs them straight to discover a flock of talking and moving trees.

(However, unlike the bear, the bees, and the spiders, the trees are nice and jolly fellows).

One evening, Thorin and Bilbo visit Hogsmeade, where they have a drink , before Bilbo spends the night in Thorin’s quarters. According to the observant students, it was a very romantic date that involved long gazes into one each other’s eyes, adorable snuggling for warmth on the way back, and a rather intimate finale.

The truth, from Bilbo’s perspective, looked slightly different. Despite their bones aching from Quidditch practice, they both found themselves without a choice but to visit Hogsmeade. Thorin needed to resupply his stocks for the anti-ache-potion and Bilbo to mail the Christmas presents to his relatives. So they shuffled on the snow, moaning and complaining all the way.

The long gazes were cast into their mulled wine, during their short stop-over at the Three Broomsticks for warmth and nearly ended with Bilbo head planting into his mug. Subsequently, that they walked back with interlocked arms was owed more to fatigue and general unsteadiness than to any romantic inclinations.

Lastly, Bilbo found himself really unwilling to climb the stairs up to his quarters. Thorin’s rooms, being in the dungeons, then proved a far superior alternative.

* * *

 

For once, not his many relations bother Bilbo with questions regarding his private life, but his own mind does instead. As he dresses on the last day of the old year, he finds himself eyeing his surroundings with a sense of profound puzzlement. A year ago on the same day, he had not expected to be here.

He had been content to stay at home, write novels and freelance editorial work, and would have happily continued to do so for the rest of his life. Then Gandalf had come knocking, waving a contract and speaking of things that made Bilbo’s hair stand and his toenails curl for their outrageousness.

He’d thought he had left magic and flying and madness behind.

But despite the armchair here not being nearly as comfortable as the one in his home, he feels better than he has in years. Everything about Hogwarts is every bit as unsettling, more or less dangerous, up to vaguely disturbing as he remembers it. And it’s _brilliant_.

And of course, there is Thorin.

How long has it been? How long since Bilbo just shrugged and admitted to himself that he simply wasn’t interested in dating and sex? He’d not looked back and it had been perfectly fine.

And then Thorin had come into his life  and Bilbo had had to realize that perhaps it was time to reconsider these things once more. He does wonder what Thorin thinks – so far, their discussions have not truly touched on former lovers or experiences or expectations for the future.

Indeed, who knows where Bilbo will be this time next year?

So when the fireworks light the foggy Scottish sky at midnight before a ragtag group of students, staff member, and forest wildlife, Bilbo and Thorin clink their glasses together.

“To a new year,” Thorin says, and Bilbo finds that he is looking forward to it very much. He is enjoying this life – the insanity of teaching, the madness of Quidditch, and the time spent with Thorin. So while he doesn’t have an exact plan of where he wants the year to take him – continuing like this seems like the best option of them all.

* * *

 

Though, roughly a week later, he amends that he probably needs to do something about the teaching.

Most students return from their winter vacation with far too much energy and interest in gossip. He stopped counting how many times he was asked “and how were your holidays, professor?” after the first lesson of the day (he’d already counted to 27 at that point). The students should be holding Quidditch practice matches nearly every day, Bilbo thinks, as the hoard of giggling fifth-years leaves his classroom. That would help them release some of that pent-up energy.

Next week, he swears as he watches their backs disappear down the corridor, next week he will get his own back.

Then his third year Gryffindor-Hufflepuff class arrives and what was supposed to be a practical lesson on muggle defense techniques nearly turns into an all-out brawl. He thinks it’s pretty bad, until Thorin arrives at the lunch table: late, charred, and smelling of smoke.

“What happened?” Bilbo asks.

Thorin sighs. “First years,” he says.

“Aren’t there charms? I always thought your robes or at least the cauldrons were charmed…”

“They are. Charmed to contain magical explosions. What this particular student exploded can only be described as beetle leg soup.”

* * *

 

Despite the chilly bite of winter settling in, Tauriel keeps up her rigorous practice schedule. Sometimes, they end up flying after dark or through snowstorms. Bilbo becomes much more proficient at catching the Snitch’s golden glow from the corner of his eye.

And if he does get the impression that the snitch is easier to get caught on particularly nasty days, well... He’d rather not find out if the snitch was sentient, after all.

So January turns into February and, abruptly, the next match is upon them.

* * *

 

“Who thought it was a good idea to schedule a game in February?” Kili mutters, shivering in the icy wind as they wait for the Durmstrang team to apparate. Bilbo surreptitiously leans a little closer to Thorin – who, despite radiating warmth, does not look all too comfortable himself.

The only one looking at ease in the arctic weather are Gandalf and Fili.

“Well, we always could have had the game up at their place,” Fili cheerfully suggests. Bilbo flinches at the idea of playing Quidditch in northern Scandinavia at this time of the year – broom icing would be a major issue.

If he remembers correctly, the one time the wizarding confederation tried to hold the Quidditch world cup in Antarctica, half the games ended early because ice rendered the brooms unable to fly.

A crack echoes through the air and ten figures materialize before the dark shapes of the Forbidden Forest.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” Gandalf cheerfully booms while their visitors gain their feet. Clad in dark, thick coats and carrying the latest brooms, they cut imposing figures, Bilbo thinks.

“Gandalf, my old friend,” the Durmstrang headmaster greets. Judging by his outfit, Bilbo wonders if he is trying to blend in with the snow. From his robes to his hair everything about the man is white –

At which point Bilbo abruptly realizes that of course it is. This is Saruman the White.

One of the most powerful wizards currently alive.

Only Bilbo had no idea he was also running a school.

“Saruman,” Gandalf cheerfully returns the greeting. “I’m glad you could come here. Now allow me to introduce my team…”

* * *

 

“Here we go,” Tauriel instructs them just before they march out on the pitch. “Everybody ready? Charmed your robes and gloves for warmth? The air’s going to be freezing and people have lost fingers.”

Bilbo frowns at the grizzly description. Fili and Kili, however, nod with excited grins.

“Alright, let’s win this thing!” Tauriel announces. Bofur, Kili, and Fili give an excited whoop in response, Dwalin grunts, and Bilbo finds himself looking to Thorin.

The door opens to the outside world with a burst of wind, light, and noise. Bilbo’s heart skips a beat, but he catches Thorin’s small smile cast into his direction, right as Kili claps his shoulder heartily.

“We’re counting on you!” he says and saunters past Bilbo.

All Bilbo can do is take a deep breath and follow.

A sharp wind tugs at his clothes; the crowd roars. The tribunes and towers seem to creak under the weight of Hogwarts’ entire student and faculty population. Huddled in warm robes and colorful scarves the students wave flags representing all the houses – or simply their own – and Bilbo feels a tingle of excitement run down his spine.

Fili, Kili, Bofur, and Tauriel march ahead of the team, waving at the ecstatic crowd.

And when the Durmstrang Team follows, the noise does not abate. Bilbo spies on towers decked out in white flags – so some fans did turn out for the other team – but then Bofur claps his shoulder and within moments they are on their brooms and in the air.

The quaffle has not been released when Kili zooms behind the announcer and grabs the microphone. “If we win,” he shouts out to the pitch at last, “Everybody gets an O!”

The crowd’s roar is deafening even meters above the pitch where Bilbo hovers. They drown out Fili’s protesting yell of “You don’t even teach!” quite effectively.

“Let the game begin!” Gandalf announces and they are on.

* * *

 

A powerful gust of wind hits Bilbo right in the face. The sky is grey and dark – daylight is already fading, so he’d rather finish this fast. A quick glance to the Durmstrang seeker reassures him that they share that interest.

Two hours in the game and Hogwarts has a minimal lead. But the wind is picking up and the dark clouds promise snow. While still full, the crowds below seem to have lessened a bit – or maybe things are simply quieter this high up.

Bilbo breathes out a small steamy cloud. His warming charms are holding up admirably so far – yet he wonders how they will fare once temperatures drop.

Which will happen, he thinks. It feels as if a storm is coming.

* * *

 

Nightfall brings a slight lead for Durmstrang, yet still no sign of the snitch. Half of their audience has vanished – the air grows colder and colder, and at some point Thorin flies up to ask if Bilbo is alright.

“Tauriel wants to continue,” he calls over from where he keeps an eye on the bludgers, but for now Dwalin is holding his own. “But if you’re too cold…”

Bilbo shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he replies, and then gives a small smile to Thorin. “Let’s win this, no?”

Thorin grins at him in return. “Certainly.” And with that he descends again, just into the path of a bludger headed for Kili. He smacks it off course, Kili scores the goal and the score evens out again.

Bilbo glances down to see that even most of their colleagues have abandoned them. “Traitors,” he thinks and the first snowflake lands softly on his nose.

He tilts his head up to see a barrage of snowflakes following. Thick, large and heavy, and promptly the wind picks up, too. He’d prefer to be watching this from his warm armchair, that’s for sure.

A freezing gust of wind pushes his broom sideways and shoves snow into his face. But Bilbo catches a blink of something gold from the corner of his eye. His heart skips a beat – and there it is again, far over the lake and high in the air, a quick shine of gold amid grey and white.

Bilbo swerves sharply, the wind almost overturning him, but he’s not been called a brilliant flyer for nothing.

Pressing his body close to the broom handle he zooms straight toward the frozen waters, and it’s glorious: the wind pulls at him, tears at him, and at that speed just a minuscule mistake would see him fall – but he can even out every pull and push just the right way, holding his balance despite the tremors, and he’s never felt quite so alive.

He hears shouting  behind him – likely, the other seeker noticed the snitch as well – but Bilbo is focused exclusively on the blink of gold ahead.

The snitch abruptly goes into a dive.

Alright, Bilbo thinks and follows promptly. Air and snow rush past him, the ground blurs, and he thinks he has never flown this fast before –

Then the snitch pulls up, just a hand’s breadth over the frozen surface of the lake. Somebody curses, but Bilbo only smiles... And follows so closely that his cloak brushes the ice like a gentle caress at breakneck speed. The snitch does not slow down; it races across the ice like a miniature rocket and Bilbo follows straight, and he feels like laughing.

He is barely aware of the other seeker (who did the sane thing and decided not to follow the snitch’s trajectory), the suddenly lively cheering, and their commentator yelling his heart out.

“… not sane or legal. And here they go again, oh, look! It’s going up!”

The snitch flies up in a straight, vertical line. Bilbo leans onto his broom and simply does the same.

Brooms, especially those carrying passengers, ought not to be able to fly like this. The weight of the witch or wizard ought to force them into a backward looping at least – if they are good fliers. Most folks simply crash.

But Bilbo’s blood is singing with the challenge, and maybe he is subconsciously using magic to help his flightpath, but despite the wind, despite the snow, despite the fading warmth of his charms, Bilbo follows straight. And he’s catching up.

They break the first layer of clouds, finding themselves amidst a dark fog for seconds before their surroundings grow lighter and lighter, and then they break through. There are more and darker clouds overhead. A purple and yellow light fills the air, wisps of torn clouds drift by and this strange and unreal world enfolds them until at one point the snitch seems to make one last turn, bringing it slightly below Bilbo –

He’s as good as getting it –

When he hears an abrupt, thunderous roar.

Oh no, Bilbo thinks. His heart drops, time slows down.

In slow motion he sees [an airplane break through the clouds ahead](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/post/145116123802/double-double-toil-and-trouble-by-paranoidfridge). The pilots’ eyes widen almost comically in the split second they see Bilbo. Then the airplane is upon him – Bilbo manages to jerk his broom up just enough – but the snitch gets sucked into one engine. And then Bilbo’s broom brushes past the tail end of the plane.

He is spun around brutally, something in his wrist cracks, there’s a pain in his chest, and his broom shatters.

The airplane flies on, undisturbed (except for the pilots). But Bilbo very keenly realizes that it was his broom that possessed the ability to fly. He never quite mastered that skill.

And then he is falling.

* * *

 

Bilbo wakes up on his back, in pain, and snow falling into his face. Several distorted blobs lean over him, and belatedly he realizes they are talking to him.

“…alright?”

“…hurt?”

“…happened?”

“… the game!”

Bilbo makes an odd noise in the back of his throat – which his ribs fiercely protest against, and Oin shouts at everybody to “take a step back, the lad just fell out of the sky after all!”

He did. From quite far up, considering he was hit by a commercial airliner. Bilbo would have buried his face in his hands – if his body wasn’t hurting too much. Muggles may have a saying about feeling like being hit by a truck – obviously none of them ever had been hit by a plane.

“What happened to the snitch, Bilbo?” Kili asks, awkwardly standing off to the side, broom in one hand. Bilbo notices a few figures still in the air – technically the game is probably still ongoing. Though most of his team is crowded around him, and apparently both sides have agreed on a temporary truce.

“… was destroyed,” Bilbo mumbles, and is grateful when Oin cast a small charm to clear his voice.

“The snitch was destroyed,” Bilbo announces to the other players and the audience. “It was sucked into an airplane engine and pulverized. I’m sorry.”

The crowd falls silent for a moment, obviously contemplating the meaning of said event for the game.

“Don’t worry, Bilbo,” Fili gives an encouraging nod. “You did your best.”

Thorin silently puts a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder to convey his agreement. Kili, meanwhile, stares up into the sky with wide eyes.

“An airplane…?”

“Those contraptions muggles use to fly,” somebody else says in the background. “They are really huge and fit quite a lot of muggles. Several hundreds, I heard.”

“Do they need that many muggles to make those things fly?” somebody else asks.

Bilbo wants to say they don’t quite work that way. But that probably does not matter. And somebody else beckons for his attention. Gandalf waves his way through the small crowd and crouches down next to Bilbo.

“Did you see the colors?” Gandalf asks, a frown on his face. “What airline it was?”

“Does that matter?” Thorin asks sharply.

Bilbo shakes his head. It was far too fast – though he might be able to recognize the pilots.

Gandalf shrugs. “Alright, we’ll find it out. Well, I believe that the game is over – and from what I can see, we are actually at a draw.”

This being said, he rises to his feet and his voice fades into the background. Bilbo hears him call the team captains, followed by an announcement, but his mind is growing hazy again. Oin hums something under his breath, tells him “you’ll be quite alright,” and Thorin is giving him a beatific smile.

And though his body may ache and throb, Bilbo blissfully closes his eyes.

* * *

 

Bilbo spends two days feeling like he is dying. Lying down hurts, sitting up hurts, moving hurts. Just moving his eyeballs hurts. Thorin holding his hand hurts, too, but Bilbo will not mention it, because he doubts Thorin is aware of what he is doing. Also it’s a fairly nice feeling, despite the pain.

He slips in and out of consciousness, and quite randomly overhears a number of conversations. At some point Tauriel rather fiercely lobbies for the establishment of a no fly zone over Hogwarts and Quidditch fields in general.

“Yes, well,” Gandalf says. “There used to a no fly zone over Hogwarts. But eventually  the muggles kept wondering about the reason for a no fly zone over a remote part of Scotland, so we couldn’t maintain it.”

“Even Bermuda is struggling to retain their no fly zone nowadays,” somebody else adds. “And they had the best Quidditch pitch ever.”

He’d like to play there some day, Bilbo thinks dazedly to himself. Quidditch on the site of the greatest time-traveling-magic-accident ever certainly would be interesting.

“We could,” somebody replies to Bilbo’s thoughts, which he apparently uttered out aloud. The speaker, he realizes, is Tauriel. “This is going well. Maybe next year we’ll do an international cup –with schools from all over the world participating.”

“That is a fantastic idea!” Gandalf exclaims.

No, Bilbo thinks, it is not. And from the way Thorin is clutching his hand, he seems to share that assessment.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The term continues and after the "usual" Hogwarts incidents, the time for the last match has come. And - naturally - something quite unexpected happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But all is well and has a happy ending. :3
> 
> The fic would not be where it is today if not for the thorough beta-work [seaweedredandbrown](http://seaweedredandbrown.tumblr.com) did! And [radio](http://radioproxy.tumblr.com) not only enabled this but also furthered it with generous suggestions.
> 
> Annnnd this has been blessed with fantastic artworks too *v*  
> [Awesome poster featuring Bilbo and Thorin in their teaching robes](http://diamond-skeleton.tumblr.com/post/144662360511/double-double-toil-and-trouble-by) by the amazing [diamond-skeleton](https://tmblr.co/mxr6d9u9MwLnHpJZPIfgKQg).  
> And the wonderful [teaxdragon](https://tmblr.co/mPuuWzHKh_q4vKEiyCNWUtQ) drew a [brilliant picture of Bilbo’s encounter with an airplane](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/post/145116123802/double-double-toil-and-trouble-by-paranoidfridge).  
> [The newspaper page with Bilbo and Thorin kissing](http://mithrilbikini.tumblr.com/post/145124058107/eyyyy-heres-my-art-for-paranoidfridges) \- wonderfully rendered by the fantastic [mithrilbikini](http://mithrilbikini.tumblr.com/)  
> And a [fantastic comic of the final scene](http://radioproxy.tumblr.com/post/145869906806/double-double-toil-and-trouble-by) by the amazing [radioproxy](http://radioproxy.tumblr.com/).  
> [The try-out scene where Bilbo and Thorin race for the snitch](http://ewebean.tumblr.com/post/145789940826/harry-potter-au-where-bilbo-baggins-newly-hired) stunningly rendered by the marvellous [ewebean](http://ewebean.tumblr.com).

On day number three, Bilbo is declared well enough to leave not only the bed but the castle altogether. He learns this not from their resident mediwizard, Oin, but from team captain Tauriel herself. The redhead marches up to Bilbo shortly after sunrise with a bright smile on her face. Bilbo wonders where she gets that energy from.

“You can have today off but I expect to see you back on the pitch tomorrow!” she tells him. Then she leans forward, glances around and drops a small pouch on Bilbo’s bedside table. “Also, Gandalf wanted me to give you this. Go get yourself a new broom – and don’t go cheap.”

Bilbo blinks. He does need a new broom, though –

“I can afford a broom myself,” he protests. His financial situation has become public knowledge at the school. Much like his private life, unfortunately.

Tauriel shrugs, unconcerned. “Then take Thorin to a nice restaurant. You know, he’s been much more cheerful since you came around.”

“You want me … to use official funds for a date?” Bilbo inquires.

“You’ve really been spending too much time among muggles,” is Tauriel’s only observation.

It’s misappropriation of funds, Bilbo wants to scream. But the longer he spends back among the wizarding community, the more he learns that his father’s approach to finances was probably inspired by muggle economics rather than wizarding ideals.

No wonder Gringotts is run by goblins.

* * *

 

Floo powder travelling with Thorin is an interesting experience. After hearing Thorin say “Diagon Alley” and vanish in a cloud of green smoke, Bilbo lazily uses a repeating spell – and blinks in confusion when it’s not the Leaky Cauldron which materializes before his eyes.

Instead, Bilbo finds himself gazing upon rows of rows of storage space. Murky crystal balls sit between dragon skulls, strange boxes and unidentifiable objects. The dark-tiled floor appears vaguely familiar.

Thorin says nothing. He simply stares ahead with a faint dusting of red coloring his cheeks.

“This is the Department of Mysteries, isn’t?” Bilbo asks rhetorically. “The one which is not supposed to be reachable from outside the Ministry.”

“Apparently they do have a working fireplace,” Thorin observes flatly.

Bilbo turns around to observe the platform they appeared on. Strange runes are etched in a circle on the ground around their feet. “I don’t think this is a fireplace.”

“Well, at least we are in London,” Thorin says. “We can just take the train.”

“After they have interrogated us to know we managed to get here?” Bilbo shakes his head. “Let us take our chances with this interdimensional portal.”

It was probably not the best decision, Bilbo thinks when he casts the spell.

But at least this time it does drop them right into Bertie Botts’ flavored beans production factory. The wizards working there look momentarily surprised, before  one of the witches regains her bearings.

“Oh, how lovely of you to visit us today. I’m afraid I don’t quite remember your appointment, Mr. Baggins, but my schedule is quite open right now.”

Roughly thirty minutes later, Bilbo and Thorin stumble outside, carrying multiple bags of flavored beans. They’re now shareholders of Bertie Botts’ Inc, which was definitely not what they had planned..

“This time,” Thorin says as he looks down the empty street, “let’s just take the tube.”

Bilbo agrees.

* * *

 

They reached Diagon Alley shortly after, and two hours later they’ve  bought the new broom for Bilbo. The best of the best and newest of the newest, according to the shopkeeper, and while Bilbo is skeptical, he does rather like the feel of it. The new broom is very light and slender – built for speed. It’s more of a racing broom than a Quidditch broom – it won’t take a lot of weight or suffer collisions very well.

But then again, Bilbo does not plan on encountering anymore airplanes. Or anything else, really.

He does feel a bit ridiculous spending so much money on a broom he will likely only need for one more match. When he says so to Thorin, the Potions teacher shrugs.

“Who knows. I think the matches have become quite popular, so the headmasters may set another round next year.”

“Next year, huh,” Bilbo mumbles.  “I don’t know if I’ll still be around.” He gazes at the shopfront windows lining Diagon Alley and the lively crowd bustling along.

Thorin looks at him from the side. “I think Gandalf wouldn’t mind making your position permanent. And I believe the students rather enjoy your class, too.”

Bilbo finds the idea looks rather pleasant. “I wonder,” he says, because there is a part of him that remains uncertain. All the upheaval, the danger –

He has enjoyed it all a lot so far.

“Isn’t the position cursed anyway?” he asks instead.

“I think the curse was broken back when Riddle died,” Thorin replies. “What remains is some superstition that regularly turns into a self-fulfilling prophecy. And a distinct lack of qualified Defense teachers.”

Bilbo chuckles. “Weren’t you going to apply for the position?”

Thorin laughs warmly. “I would have, to be honest. But that was rather born from frustration with all the incompetents Gandalf hired. The best the students had was a muggle karate instructor. At least that guy had some things to say about defense, though he did not know the first thing about magic.”

“Oh my.” Bilbo takes a look at the darkening sky – it’s already fairly late, and the shops will begin closing soon.  “What do you say, we head for muggle London for dinner?”

“Yes, please.”

* * *

 

After that, things return to normal. Or as normal as they ever are.

One day a student accidentally sets their breakfast cereal on fire, the next day students decided to try snorkeling to the giant squid, and on the third day the castle decides spontaneously to render the fourth floor completely off limits.

Tauriel summons them for a pre-breakfast warm-up everyday, and an after-lesson Quidditch session. Bilbo soon finds he is as far behind on grading as his students are on their homework. In order to tackle this issue, he and Thorin decide to hold after-Quidditch grading sessions.

Those more often than not involve wine, a lot of groaning, and if one or the other does not make the way back to their own quarters – well, Hogwarts has a lot of tricky staircases.

* * *

 

“Professor Oakenshield,” Hufflepuff prefect Hüseyin calls, breathlessly. “Headmaster Gandalf said you should come at once.”

Bilbo blinks, Thorin straightens. “Where to?” he asks calmly.

If Gandalf is demanding their immediate presence, Bilbo thinks, it likely won’t be anything good.

“The runes classroom”, the prefect says, and only then seems to register Bilbo’s presence. Her eyes widen. “He asked for you as well, Professor Baggins.”

Bilbo swallows. Last time this happened they had trolls coming up from the Forbidden Forest. “Did he say what the matter is?” he asks, summoning his robe to him.

She shakes her head. “I heard there was an accident, but I don’t know what happened.”

“Very well,” Thorin replies, fastening his black cloak. “Thank you very much – we’ll be on our way . And I believe you best head to your next class.”

“Yes, of course,” the prefect nods and speeds off again.

Bilbo glances at Thorin. “What do you think happened?” he asks as they set out.

“I don’t know,” Thorin replies, “But if Gandalf is calling for us and not for Oin, it probably will not turn out too bad.”

* * *

 

“It was only supposed to be a translation charm,” fourth-year Ravenclaw student Henry Nguyen is telling Gandalf when Bilbo and Thorin appear on the scene. “It was supposed to translate what you are saying into ancient Gaelic.”

“Ah, Thorin, Bilbo, how wonderful that you could come here so fast,” Gandalf greets them with a smile. From the far end of the classroom, Bofur waves at them before turning back to his cousin and the rune teacher, Bifur – who looks as if something exploded in his face.

“Gandalf,” Bilbo returns the greeting. “What happened?”

Gandalf beams at them, as if they weren’t looking at a classroom that seems to  have been abandoned in a panic. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.. From what I know, some charm have gone wrong.”

Bilbo tilts his head. “Well, if it’s a charm –“

He is interrupted by the classroom door opening again, Fili stumbling through. “Gandalf, what is this all about? I hear that – oh, hi uncle, Bilbo. Bofur, Bifur… what’s going on?”

Gandalf’s smile brightens. “Great, I believe everybody is here now. Mr Nguyen cast a very particular charm. From what I understand, it had not the expected effects, but those were nevertheless rather fascinating. Now, would you mind explaining what you did?”

Henry Nguyen’s face twists in panic. “I didn’t mean to do anything…”

Unlike Bilbo and Thorin, Fili directs a calm and patient smile at the student. “Well, something did happen, after all. And if Gandalf is right, it may be of quite some academic interest, so why don’t you tell us what happened in detail.”

And why we are here, Bilbo wants to add. So far, all he can see is that the classroom is messy and Bifur looks upset.

“Well, the professor had us reading out the runes texts from the book,” the student begins shakily. “I’m not very good, but I know there are well-working translation charms for most languages. So I looked up a translation charm for ancient Gaelic in the library…”

Fili nods attentively. “Do you remember what book you found it in?”

“Yes, I still have it. Do you want to look at it?”

Fili smiles. “Yes. But first can you tell us what happened when you cast the charm?”

“The professor was right next to my desk, so I was trying to cast it as quietly as possible. I don’t know what happened – there was a small flash, and in the next moment everybody is staring at me…”

“And the dear professor is only capable of speaking ancient Gaelic,” Gandalf closes the narration. “A rather fascinating development, I find. I don’t think many translation charms exist for languages no longer spoken.”

Bifur shouts something across the room. Despite being in a language Bilbo only knows from writing, they all know that it expressed serious doubt of Gandalf’s judgement.

“He also only writes in Gaelic runes,” Gandalf adds, unfazed.

Henry looks absolutely mortified.

Bilbo thinks that while teaching will likely be difficult like this, Bifur would could be a star with the tourist villages in the area. He is somewhat horrified at himself for such a thought.

“Can it be undone?” Henry asks, carefully.

Gandalf directs a benign smile at the student. “We will have to see.”

That is visibly not reassuring, but neither Bilbo, Thorin, nor Fili protest when Gandalf sends the student on his merry way with an admonishment “not to use the charm on Radagast. After all, we can translate Gaelic runes, but I believe Mandrake screaming may be more difficult to decipher.”

With a small shudder, Fili turns his eyes to the textbook Henry left behind. The charm in question is quickly found, though the writing has Bilbo blinking. 17th century English was never his strong point, and usually not the students’ either.

“Maybe a translation error?” he hazards.

Fili hums. “Perhaps, but from what I can tell, this operates on the same basis most transformation charms do.”

“That means it’ll wear off,” Bilbo concludes.

“Yes, or you can usually undo it with a common unsticking potion.” Fili adds. “Uncle can probably have one prepare in four days or so.”

Thorin who is also studying the book nods. “Three, I believe.”

“Though if you don’t mind,” Fili says with a glint in his eyes. “I’d like to study this charm a little longer. Think about it – translation charms for ancient languages. I don’t think that has been managed before!”

* * *

 

In the end Bifur spends about a week spending ancient Gaelic. Fili – despite cheerfully experimenting with various languages – finds he cannot entirely replicate the effect. But, he proclaims while Nori curses him ancient Egyptian, he believes he is on the right path.

* * *

 

And before Bilbo knows it, it’s May and time for the final game.

A crisp, cold wind tears at Bilbo’s cloak and hair even before the world has righted itself. He shivers, and feels Kili next to him do the same as they take in their surroundings. The bowl-shaped valley they have apparated into is covered in snow, as are the mountains surrounding it. However, the sky is a glorious, bright blue, and Bilbo squints as he looks up.

How long has it been since he has seen the sun? And why, he wonders once again, did the wizarding community chose to set up camp in Scotland? They could have picked a nice, tropical island and simply set up fixed apparating points.

“Welcome, welcome,” their host, a shaggy-haired man greets, his voice distorted by the translation charm. “I’m glad everyone could make it.” He gives them all a smile, and Bilbo gains the impression that he hasn’t done this very often.

“Thank you indeed for hosting us, Bard,” Gandalf returns and inclines his head. “I understand the transition is quite a bit of work, so I’m glad you and your staff could make the time.”

Bard chuckles. “I think they all welcome the distraction.”

Right, Bilbo thinks as he recalls the articles. Bard only became headmaster by an unfortunate chain of events - one that involved corruption, the former headmaster, land developers, and a number of angry dragons.

From that perspective, Hogwarts appears a positively safe environment.

* * *

 

“This is it,” Kili says with a small smile after taking a quick glance outside. Even in the changing chamber, Bilbo can hear the cheering from outside. The tribunes must be completely filled, he thinks, and a tingle of excitement runs down his spine.

“If we win this, we win the tournament,” Kili says.

“And if Koldovstoretz wins this, they win,” Fili cautions. “They will be playing to win.”

“Then we must play harder!” Tauriel announces and marches forward. By now the rest of the team easily falls into formation behind her. “We’re playing to win! This is it! The game! And we will take the cup home!”

“Woohooo,” Bofur agrees with a loud cheer.

The door swings open and as they march out the crowd explodes. For a moment, Bilbo thinks he must go deaf – the ground trembles, the air shudders – and the students are all, or at least nearly all cheering for them. In front of their team, Kili straightens his back and casts a charming smile at the students, and Fili and Bofur wave.

And even Thorin has a small smile on his lips, and Bilbo thinks just for this – just for sharing another night with laughter – he will catch the snitch. Determination alights in his chest like a forest fire. The sky is a bright, cloudless blue, and Tauriel is right.

* * *

 

Bilbo leisurely rises up in the air, while the game immediately erupts into action. Kili bursts forward, confusing the Koldovstoretz chaser, whose sloppy pass is intercepted by Tauriel. A well-aimed bludger stops her from diving straight for the Koldovstoretz goal, and the beaters force her off to the side. But Bofur is approaching, Thorin shouts an order and the game is on.

Bilbo rises higher on his broom, leaving the flurry of excitement behind. He’s high enough to feel the cold despite the warming charms and his breath fogs in the air. On the other side of the pitch, the Koldovstoretz seeker, Boromir,  hovers at a similar altitude, eyes scanning the surroundings.

The pitch below is ringed by smaller hills. From up here, Bilbo can see the buildings that house the school – hidden behind another mountain and clinging to its slopes. Rumor has it that the school extends within the mountain – a system of caves and caverns – and Bilbo wonders if that is true.

Yet another valley ahead he catches a glimpse of deep blue: a lake, almost completely frozen over, but glittering beautifully in the sunshine. He’s really high up, he realizes then. The audience below barely more than small colorful dots. Bilbo experiences a sense of vertigo. Despite being a wizard, despite actually liking flying, he’s always had issues with heights.

Well, he tells himself, maybe it’s time to back down a bit. He steadies his grip on his broom, gazes around – and realizes that even at this height, he is still a good bit below the mountain tops.

This must be what Quidditch in the Himalayans feels like, Bilbo thinks to himself. Of course, at this time his brain promptly choses to recall the tragic Quidditch accidents there – how more than one seeker not used to the surroundings crashed into mountain sides during the chase. Bilbo swallows, looks at the mountains again. Not quite the way he’d want to go.

Below, the bell rings out and the crowd cheers. Bilbo is too far away to see the scoreboard, but he hopes the game is going well. It does look quite fast and active – and then he catches a golden wink from the corner of his eye.

Early, but Bilbo won’t complain. He leans forward on his broom, spies the blink again. There, near the lake – and he is certain it’s the snitch. The wind rushes past him, he never hears the commentator saying “and it looks as if the chase for the snitch is on!”, but he notices Boromir joining the race.

For a moment, the snitch hovers in place over the lake. The sun glints of the golden sphere like a beacon and Bilbo flies faster and faster, and Boromir falls in right next to him. Both pressing their brooms to the top speed, and then the snitch moves and zigzags just above the water.

They dive down, and Bilbo’s heart is racing as he follows the wild course of the snitch, Boromir next to him cursing and fighting against oversteering his broom. At this speed every movement counts, every shift of weight could potentially be fatal – and it’s glorious. Sheer excitement and joy rush through Bilbo’s veins, and he’s never felt so alive, the sun’s never shone so brightly.

The snitch curves, steering back toward the land. Boromir is closer – but he oversteers and is blown of course, while Bilbo gently nudges his broom to follow, the cursing of his competitor fading behind him. Then there’s nothing in the air but Bilbo and the snitch, both zooming across the glittering water underneath. Water turns to ice, and Bilbo notices the snitch begins to rise without slowing down. He is slowly but certainly gaining on it –

When the snitch suddenly jerks in midair. It doesn’t change its trajectory, and Bilbo has a split second to wonder before a gust of wind similarly tosses him sideways and up, and he struggles to control his broom. But flying has always been instinctual to him, and where the sudden turbulence would have spun others out of control, Bilbo allows the wind to lift him – and put him straight on track after the snitch.

They leave the lake, the ground raises. Two mountains rise ahead, connected by a bridge. The snitch clears it barely, Bilbo follows – the snitch is less than ten meters from him. Just a little more –

A valley opens up, dotted with small houses. The school, then, but Bilbo keeps his eyes glued on the snitch, following it higher and higher as they pass another mountain, the snitch cutting the curve so close it nearly brushes the glacial ice seracs.

Even against vision charms,  the light is nearly blinding to Bilbo and the air icy and sharp in his lungs. He loves the high-speed chase, loves weaving around mountains into ever more remote valleys. Past glaciers and ice caves, over snow-covered fields and forest... And then, when he’s almost caught up, another figure on a broom zooms past a mountain, and Bilbo can see Boromir’s path converge with the snitch, and knows he will not make it –

With a deafening roar, something giant dislodges itself from the mountains. Among a shower of ice and rock a huge, a red dragon bursts from its hiding place; big wings propelling it into the air with powerful strokes, and Bilbo feels his jaw drop.

Wild dragons are incredibly rare. They are also incredibly dangerous.

Boromir, too, stops.

Which is as well, because the dragon rises into the path of the snitch – and catches it in one, ominously glinting claw.

Both seekers hang frozen in midair.

The overgrown reptile huffs in satisfaction – blowing a cloud of steam into the frigid air – then turns around and leisurely flied back toward the mountain. Bilbo watches, utterly stupefied, as the dragon disappears into the mouth of a cave.

He really hadn’t thought about dragons.

But maybe… He did know that dragons lived in this part of the world, wild and free. He just would never have expected one to have taken up residency quite so close to a school...

And to show up during a Quidditch match.

To catch the snitch.

“Do you know if there is any rule for this?” Bilbo shouts over to Boromir, and if his voice comes out slightly high-pitched, he doubts anybody can fault him.

The other seeker frowns. He grimaces. He seems to think deeply before answering.

“I don’t know,” he declares at last. “But I know the match won’t end before either you or I catch the snitch. I will go retrieve it!”

“But –“

Bilbo’s protest never reaches Boromir’s ears and the seeker zooms off. This is insane, Bilbo thinks. Sheer, utter madness!

And not the nice kind of madness that makes his spine tingle.

Fear rises sharply in his stomach. Boromir comes closer to the mountain, and Bilbo abruptly realizes that he may very well die. He cannot allow that to happen; not during what is essentially a fun match. The rules –

Bilbo jerks his brooms around. He needs to find the judges. Gandalf and Bard might be able to put an end to this madness before somebody else is ended.

* * *

 

He may just have broken the speed record for flight on a broom, but Bilbo does not think of that when he pulls up before the judges’ tribune, where Gandalf and Bard are seated. His heart races a mile a minute and he probably hasn’t breathed since he took off.

“The snitch…” he presses out, clutching the broom with sweat-soaked fingers and fighting for air. “Boromir … dragon…”

“What?” Bard inquires, while Gandalf simply watches Bilbo with an expression of polite intrigue. Behind them, the game slows down.

“A dragon got the snitch!” Bilbo bursts out, loud enough for the entire arena to hear.

“A dragon? Not again,” somebody moans on the tribune.

“It didn’t set fire to the school, did it? Those charms ought to be working,” somebody else inquires with a sense of reasonable concern.

Bilbo blinks.

Bard turns to Bilbo, an apologetic smile on his face. “I’m afraid we’re rather used to dragons, though them going for the snitch is indeed quite a new development.”

“Yes, but what do we do?” Bilbo nearly shouts. “I mean, about the game.”

“My son will bring back the snitch!” an audience member declares, rising up to his feet. “You will see, he is the best seeker of his generation! Far superior to that Aragorn!”

Aragorn Elessar, who, if Bilbo recalls correctly, recently won the Quidditch World Cup with his team.

“But the dragon…” he helplessly protests, because he doubts even Aragorn would be able to steal the snitch from an actual dragon.

Bard simply scratches his head and Gandalf leans and twirls his beard. “Well, I don’t think there are any provisions in the rules for that.” He looks to his fellow headmaster, and he simply shrugs.

“In that case, I suppose the original rules will be what we look to,” Gandalf pronounces. “The game only ends when the snitch is caught.”

“But it was caught!” Bilbo protests. “By a dragon!”

“Yes, but the dragon was not on any of the participating teams.” Gandalf nods to himself as if to reaffirm his words. “So the match is not yet won.”

Bilbo blinks in disbelief. “You mean you want me to get the snitch from a dragon?”

“Well, that or you forfeit,” Eowyn, the Koldovstoretz chaser flying by, yells on top of her voice. “Does a dragon scare you?”

Before Bilbo can say anything else, a terrifying roar shakes the ground. It echoes across the mountains, making the snow slide from the roofs. Bilbo can feel it into the depth of his bones.

Boromir, Bilbo thinks, panic rising in his chest. The other seeker –

He jerks his broom around to almost collide with Thorin. His hair is askew, face bruised and worried and he reaches out for Bilbo saying: “Don’t go, we will for –“

But his hand only grasps air and Bilbo is flying away as fast as he can go, his mind screaming that he is insane, that he is not prepared for this. That the rational thing to do would be to forfeit and get an actual dragon trainer to handle the situation.

Instead he’s flying across the valley, past the school, the mountain, and then he sees the cave. And, in what is likely a fit of momentary insanity, he guides his broom into a dive.  By some miracle, he does not crash his broom against the sheer rock of the mountain and lands in the cave.

All is suspiciously quiet – so quiet Bilbo can hear his own heart race.

“Hello?” he calls at a whisper. “Boromir?”

Something moves, and Bilbo flinches. Only the following groan sounds rather human than dragon-ish, so Bilbo inches forward step by step. No dragon leaps around the corner; instead he finds Boromir leaning against the rock around a small bend in the cave.

He perceives a faint glow emerging from the end of the cave – and firmly tells himself he is not going to find out. Boromir needs medical assistance first of all!

The other seeker is sporting a deep cut over his eyebrow and an even larger cut on the back of his head; both bleeding profoundly. Bilbo’s stomach twists; he takes a deep breath before crouching down and checking for more injuries.

From what he can tell, Boromir had a rather unfortunate encounter with the rock wall. Though from the splinters surrounding him, the broom took the worst of it. Bilbo swallows. Better a pulverized broom than being eaten by a dragon.

“Boromir,” he calls softly, and the other seeker blinks up at him with glazed eyes.

“The snitch… the dragon’s got it. I need to …” he mumbles.

“You need to go back to your team,” Bilbo tells him.

“But the game …”

“Is over,” Bilbo declares.

He gets one shoulder under Boromir and gets them both to their feet. Boromir groans, sways, and he’s a good head taller than Bilbo. “Just a few steps,” Bilbo coaxes, his own muscles straining to keep them both upright.

They totter forward and Bilbo tries not to panic at amounts of blood flowing from Boromir’s head injury. Those bleed a lot – he knows that.

Then the mouth of the cave becomes visible, and Bilbo sees his broom still standing where he left it. Relief floods his veins; he stretches out a hand and wordlessly commands the broom to come to him.

“Take my broom,” Bilbo tells Boromir, his heart racing in his chest. “Fly back and tell the others to come for me.” The sweat on his back is turning cold, but he forces himself to focus on Boromir. The other seeker’s eyes are dulled, and he seems to be struggling to stay awake.

But Bilbo can’t leave him here alone.

Not when half of his face is covered in blood and somewhere in the back of this cave a dragon sits. Why did nobody follow him? Bilbo bites down on his lip and holds his broom out to Boromir. Why on earth did he decide to get a seeker broom? His old broom could have easily carried two persons.

“Can you do that?” Bilbo asks as Boromir fumbles with the broom. “Fly back and get the others?”

The other seeker blinks, but then grunts and gives a nod.

Bilbo is not convinced, but Boromir struggles onto the broom and then looks to Bilbo, visibly dizzy but determined. “I owe you,” he mumbles. “I’ll get them…” And then he kicks off.

He not looking very steady as he flies off, Bilbo thinks. But at least he is flying into the right direction.

Well, Bilbo thinks. Now all he can do is sit and wait.

He is not going to look for the snitch.

He told Boromir the game is over.

He is not going there.

* * *

 

As quietly as he can, Bilbo tiptoes along the corridor.

The dragon lies asleep at the far back of the cavern, curled up on what looks like a mountain of precious metals, antique furniture, and industrial rolls of colored tinfoil. In fact the entire cavern is filled with shiny and glittery objects that must have accumulated through a number of centuries, resulting in something that looks like an 18th century disco club –  if muggles of the 18th century had shiny tinfoil, disco balls, and glitter.

All in all, the dragon’s sense of interior decoration may be more frightening than the dragon itself. And the part of Bilbo that would like to protest at that evaluation is silenced quickly – because here he is, sneaking into a dragon’s den to retrieve a snitch in order to win a staff match. When all he did was agree to teach at Hogwarts for a year.

Gandalf has a lot to answer for.

The dragon huffs and shuffles its body, but then quietens again. Bilbo’s heart does not, and once more he wonders what exactly he is doing here. And then, promptly, the snitch flutters into sight to his left.

It’s not too far from him, but at a decent distance from the dragon.

So Bilbo takes another step forward instead of backward. He makes certain to keep his breathing quiet and regular; his footsteps inaudible. The snitch hovers in place, barely a meter above the ground. Bilbo comes closer and closer.

Slowly and carefully, he navigates past broken cabinets, strewn pieces of amber, and a collection of cracked disco balls. He goes up a roughly hewn staircase that begets a number of rather interesting questions like who made it and why, but then the snitch is right before him and Bilbo forgets to think and to breathe.

One wrong movement and he loses his chance.

(And probably also wakes the dragon and gets himself eaten. Or incinerated).

Careful, he tells himself, careful. Slowly he stretches out his arm until his fingers are but a hand’s length away. Then he snatches it.

In the blink of an eye his fingers close around cold, solid gold. The faint hum of the snitch’s wings stops – only the dragon’s soft, regular snoring remains. Bilbo sighs quietly with relief. He has the snitch, he realizes with a sense of dizziness. He caught it.

They’ve won the game.

Technically. He wonders what will happen if the dragon eats him before he can inform anybody of his catch.

Bilbo takes another shuddering breath. Then he carefully turns around and quietly makes his way back, the snitch clasped tightly in his fingers. Steps by noiseless steps, he gets closer to the exit. All the while the dragon snoozes, not even shifting in his sleep.

And after an eternity Bilbo reaches the tunnel. He’s done it, he realizes and feels lightheaded; he is almost out. Just a few more steps –

“Bilbo! Bilbo, where are you –“ a familiar voice echoes down the tunnel.

Bilbo flinches. Behind him things clatter and crash as a large body shifts.

“Bilbo, are you alright? Bilbo, are you –“ Thorin comes around the corner, eyes wide and anxious. “Bilbo!”

The dragon growls.

Bilbo’s blood runs cold. “Run!” he screeches at Thorin and does not look back. Thorin pales abruptly, turns on his heel, and takes off.

The dragon roars. Underneath their feet the earth shudders, small stones drop from the tunnel’s ceiling, and Bilbo is running faster than he ever did before. His vision narrows down to the small patch of blue sky he sees ahead; behind him the world is collapsing, in front of him Thorin jumps on his broom.

And waits just for a split second for Bilbo to throw himself onto it too.

Then they are off.

But if he thought himself safe on Thorin’s heavy-duty racing broom, Bilbo abruptly learns he was wrong. A wave of heat trails them outside, and Bilbo just sees a large cloud of fire soar to the sky. From the smoke bursts forth the shape of an angry dragon.

“Thorin!” Bilbo screams in warning, clutching his team mates’ robe.

He switches his grip to the broom when Thorin abruptly drops them down, barely escaping  another fireball that nearly singes Bilbo’s eyebrows.

“Get us out of here!”

“No one,” Thorin huffs as he levels the broom at break-neck speed. “Has ever outflown a dragon!”

Bilbo glances behind him. The beast is nearly upon them.

“Hold on!” Thorin shouts and jerks the broom to the left. They brush past the mountain, narrowly avoiding crashing into the sheer rock. For a short moment, the dragon is gone from view, and Thorin uses the chance to dive.

It feels like freefall.

Bilbo clings onto him for dear life, cursing himself for his irresponsibility. He should have left the dragon alone. Should never have gone in there; not after what happened to Boromir. And now, even magic won’t save them.

As close to the ground as he dares, Thorin levels the broom again; Bilbo can the wood shake from the stress. His own hands are covered in cold sweat - if the broom fails at this speed, they might end up breaking their necks before the dragon gets to them.

A roar shakes the mountain and the trees of the nearby orchard. Thorin quickly maneuvers between them, but the foliage is not enough to hide them from view. The dragon folds its wings, diving down.

“It’s coming, Thorin,” Bilbo shouts to be heard about the wind rushing past.

Thorin murmurs a curse, speeds up. It’s only a question of time until they either hit a tree or the dragon catches up, and Bilbo should not have been such an idiot, should have been more cautious, and he’s so terribly, terribly sorry Thorin got caught up in it all.

The dragon spits a fireball after them. Red and orange block out the sky, Bilbo’s heart stops - and then he manages to cast a wandless protection charm just in time. Heat rushes over his skin, but the flames stop at the magical barrier, though he can feel their power. He knows that this barrier won’t hold any stronger blow from the firebreather.

For a moment, their little bubble is encased in flames. Bilbo thinks of the orchard, the school grounds, the innocent bystanders.

Then the fire recedes, dissolving harmlessly into the sky. To his surprise, Bilbo finds the orchard entirely undisturbed. The small hut he sees does not even have scorch marks. The tribunes members did mention fire charms.

“Blast it,” Thorin curses, and that is all the warning Bilbo has before Thorin pulls up. They barely evade a tree - one branch breaks off, and Bilbo and Thorin find themselves with an odd assortment of leaves and flowers in their hair.

“Can you hold that charm?” Thorin yells, turning to glance over his shoulder toward the dragon which already gears up for the next attack. “We need to get to Gandalf!”

Or Bard, or anybody knowing how to stop a dragon.

Bilbo’s fingers shake, but he nods, because there is no choice. This is their only shot at making it out of this.

The dragon spits fire again.

Bilbo casts the spell. Aloud this time, and it’s good. The fire is stronger, but Bilbo can hold the spell, despite his fingers shaking with exhaustion. Thorin keeps the broom on a straight line toward the Quidditch pitch, and flies as fast as he can.

The dragon roars in frustration and with a few beats of its powerful wings comes closer, attacks again.

Bilbo casts the barrier again.

They’re almost back to the pitch, he realises and abruptly relief floods his veins, before another attack demands his attention. And the stands looked cleared out - maybe there is a chance they will survive -

When the fire clears, the dragon is nearly upon them.

“Thorin!” Bilbo screams, “It’s catching up!”

Thorin curses, and ducks down, but the broom is already at its limit. They can’t outrun it; though they are almost there. They can even see several figures on the pitch.

The dragon doesn’t bother to cast another fireball after them.

Thorin puts the broom into another dive.

Massive jaws open, revealing a line of sharp, glistening teeth. The dragon will be upon them within moments. Bilbo flounders for a spell, but dragons are immune to magic, terribly difficult to attack, and -

“Sorry,” is all Thorin says. And then jerks the broom so hard Bilbo loses his hold entirely. The oiled wood, the soft fabric of Thorin’s cloak – it slides from his fingers in slow motion. He can only watch, powerless, as the broom with Thorin slips away from him.

His eyes are fixed on Bilbo’s falling form, and with sudden horror Bilbo sees the small, wistful smile on Thorin’s face. Warm, heart-breaking, and behind him the dragon’s form looms, opening its fearsome jaw.

“NOOOOOOO! THORIN!” Bilbo screams against the rushing air.

But he’s falling, falling away from disaster, and he knows no magic, no spell strong enough to stop it, and Thorin, no he won’t, he can’t, Thorin cannot –

“HALT!” a new voice shouts and the dragon stops, his teeth already brushing Thorin’s hair. Bilbo stares in breathless fear at the sky, never noticing the looming ground or the freezing charm cast on him.

A new figure has risen on a broom; their bright orange robes clearly marking them as not one of the Quidditch players. But instead of talking to them, the new person focuses exclusively on the dragon. A whistle is blown, and the dragon turns his head.

Bilbo wants to scream at Thorin to run. Turn his broom and fly away as fast as possible.

Instead Thorin, too, watches in fascination as the new figure draws closer, blowing their weird whistle, until eventually, the dragon huffs. It turns, beats its wings and flies away.

Bilbo feels his knees grow weak. He doesn’t even remember touching the ground, but he’s sitting on it now, heart in his throat and his fingers shaking. This has been too close, far too close. Thorin could have –

The Potions Teacher guides his broom gently toward the ground.

And before Bilbo quite knows what he is doing, he has marched across the pitch, grabs Thorin by the lapels before he has gotten of his broom, and pulls him down into a kiss. He never hears the crowd laugh and cheer as he reassures himself that Thorin is gloriously alive and unharmed.

“Never,” Bilbo mutters when they break apart. “Never do that again. Don’t scare me like this, Thorin. I can’t…”

Thorin holds him by the shoulders and gives him a small smile in response. “You walked into the dragon’s den.” But the pallor of his face lets Bilbo know that he was scared, too.

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo replies, hotly recalling that his own decision is what started all this. “I didn’t –“

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Bard, standing awkwardly to the side, clears his throat. Gandalf next to him smiles cheerfully, while the rest of the players watch Bilbo and Thorin in various degrees of confusion.

“But, well, …”

“What happened to the game?” Bofur shouts. “Did the dragon keep the snitch?”

“Ah yes, the snitch,” Bilbo remembers. From the pockets of his singed cloak he pulls the small golden ball and holds it up. The gold shines under the sun – and the audience sucks in a breath – and then bursts into a deafening cheer.

Bilbo manages a small smile, shaky as it may be.

“Hogwarts has won!” the announcer shouts a moment later. “The snitch has been caught, and team Hogwarts has won!”

“We did it!” Kili shouts excitedly, dropping down from his broom. “We won the tournament!” Tauriel, Bofur, Fili and Dwalin join the cheer, while the Koldovstoretz staff claps politely.  

Bilbo doesn’t care about the tournament. They’re alive, he thinks dizzily, leaning against Thorin, they survived. Thorin’s arms tighten around him, and he is probably thinking the same.

Gandalf detaches himself from a gaggle of people and wanders over with a wide smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye.

“Congratulations Bilbo,” Gandalf says cheerfully. “You got the snitch after all.”

Bilbo’s face whitens. “Never again!” he vows passionately. Never again. This almost killed them all.

(And team-wide deaths have already happened in Quidditch history).

“Ah, let’s not be hasty,” Gandalf cheerfully comments. “I believe Boromir has already issued the demand for a rematch. And I received some information telling me our colleagues in Australia were also interested in joining.”

Bilbo is tempted to simply say he’s resigning here and now. Because if he’s not staff at Hogwarts, he can’t be drafted into their Quidditch team.

“How is he?” he asks instead, remembering the injuries Boromir sustained.

“Apparently, he got a concussion and his memories are a bit blurry, but he is already recovering,” Bard answers, approaching from the side. He inclines his head. “I’m afraid your broom is still up at our infirmary, but I could send somebody up -”

Bilbo shakes his head, and tugs his Quidditch cloak into place again - only now he can see how blackened and charred the edges are. There are bloodstains as well (and seeing this alone makes a part of his mind wonder how he ever agreed to take part in this insanity). “No, just send it to Hogwarts. I’m sure it will -”

He’s stopped from saying anything at all by Kili emptying a bottle of champagne over his head, while Fili has several glasses floating through the air towards them.

“We won!” Kili cheers. “We won!” He does sound slightly like a broken record. Fili claps and Bofur whoops, while Bilbo wipes the sticky liquid from his curls - it’s disgusting, he wants to say, but a smile tugs at his lips.

“Well, congratulations are in order,” Bard says, stepping out of Gandalf’s protective shadow now that Kili has started inching up on Thorin with the remaining contents of the bottle. “You played a good game. And sorry about the dragon.”

“Well…” Bilbo grimaces. He didn’t exactly play a good game, what with telling Boromir the game was over after the dragon got the snitch and then going after it himself. Also leading the dragon into the school orchard perhaps was not the best idea.

“Next year, we’ll be sure the dragons know to stay out of the game,” Bard promises.

Bilbo really doesn’t know about next year. His blood is still pumping, his cloak is burnt and bloodied, and champagne drops from his hair. He has come a long way from the respectable muggle writer he once decided to be.

Apparently he’d not had enough of the magical world’s madness yet.

Somewhere behind him Kili whoops as he finally manages to douse Thorin in the remaining champagne. The Potions teacher grumbles and wipes his wet hair from his face, and Bilbo realizes just how nicely his biceps are bulging at the motion. How beautifully Thorin’s hair glints under the sun.

Bilbo turns to look at the emptying tribunes in order to hide his red face. When he finds nothing interesting there, he remembers to cast a cleaning spell on himself. That should take care of the drying sweat, drying alcohol and that slight odor of grill charcoal which has been following him around... At least until he gets a chance to shower.

“Well, well. I believe a celebration at Hogwarts will be waiting for us,” Gandalf says and the interruption is welcome. Fili and Kili apparently are a hair’s breadth away from reenacting the entire game, and Tauriel seems to be actually edging them on.  

“Then what are we waiting for?” Bofur asks.

And with a few words of thanks to their hosts, they are off. Well, it takes Bilbo and Thorin a moment longer to reach Hogwarts, simply because Bilbo - still rather shaken from their close encounter - lets Thorin do the apparating.

Instead of a familiar castle, they open their eyes to see a beach. It’s empty - luckily - and Bilbo glances back to see mountains and wilderness.

“Where are we?” he asks, looking to Thorin who gazes around rather sheepishly before he shrugs.

“This may be close to Erebor, but I’m not sure,” he says apologetically. “Shall we try again? It usually works on the second try.”

Bilbo feels himself smiling, and the tension still wrapped tightly around his heart begins to dissipate. “No,” he decides, “let’s stay for a moment.”

“They’ll be waiting for us at the castle.”

“They can wait a moment more”, Bilbo announces and finds a nice rounded rock to sit on. The air here is cool and the water dark blue and choppy. They must be in the north then, perhaps even in Scotland.

Thorin comes over to sit beside him. “Alright.”

“It’s a nice spot you found here,” Bilbo comments, enjoying the quietude surrounding them. It’s different from the hustle of Hogwarts and the rush of the game. His heart still pounds too loud and too fast.

“Sometimes this does lead to nice discoveries,” Thorin agrees, before shifting to look closer at Bilbo. “Say, I didn’t think to ask earlier, but are you alright? Everything happened so fast, I entirely forgot.”

His eyes rove down Bilbo’s body, along his scorched Quidditch robes and messy curls, and Bilbo shakes his head. “I think I’m fine. Just a bit upset still. This was much too close for my taste.”

Thorin sighs, letting his own shoulders slump. “I completely agree.”

A part of Bilbo wants to bring up Thorin’s stupid, self-sacrificing attempt again. But he finds he’s just as guilty - trying to sneak past a dragon - so perhaps they’re better off enjoying their good luck for now.

“And they let children play Quidditch there,” he says instead, with a huff.

Thorin laughs.

* * *

 

They arrive at Hogwarts fashionable late, to many winks and innuendos. Down to the ghosts, everybody seems to have their own theory on just what delayed them. Not that there is much variety in the what - everybody is in agreement here - but the details have given rise to fanciful speculation.

Which Bofur begins to gladly share over his glass of very spiked punch. “... but no, I told them, if anybody’s doing anything it will be you. I mean, you’re the one who went up against a dragon and these trolls, so if anybody is going to take on our grumpy Potions Professor, then who better than -”

“Bofur,” Bilbo interrupts much to the disappointment of the group of very interested sixth years listening in (and wouldn’t it be nice if they paid that much attention in class?). “Nothing happened.”

“Ah, come on, Bilbo,” Bofur cheerfully pats his shoulder. “Don’t be stingy. Share your happiness. I mean even Thorin doesn’t look as broody nowadays.”

The glare Thorin casts toward Bofur sends the portrait behind him diving for cover, but Bofur shrugs it off.

“Where did you disappear to, anyway?” Bifur inquires as he makes his way over to them through the revelling crowd. They haven’t yet reached the Great Hall, but Bilbo can already hear the music and even the corridors are filled with people drunken either on victory or alcohol.

… any muggle school would be shut down on the spot, Bilbo thinks, while he allows Bifur to press a glass of punch into his hand.

“Just a spot in nature,” Thorin answers Bifur’s question quietly.

“Ohhh, the great outdoors!” Bofur proclaims loudly and with far too much enthusiasm to let it sound in any way innocent. “How adventurous of you!”

Bilbo downs his drink in one gulp.

* * *

 

“And a very good morning to everybody who could make it to breakfast this fine morning,” Gandalf greets the students as breakfast appears on the table. The hall is not even half-filled, which to Bilbo comes as no surprise – not that he does remember particularly much of the party.

(He remembers the aftermath, however, and thinks that was the rather more important part, anyway.)

“As you may have guessed, I have a few announcements to make,” Gandalf continues. “Now,  charms class has to be cancelled today. According to the note I found on my desk this morning our dear professor somehow found himself the wrong portkey and now is in the Bahamas. I believe he will be back in time.

Professor Baggins, do you have an announcement to make as well?”

Bilbo sighs. “Yes. Well. Potions class is cancelled today.”

The loud “ooohhh” that echoes through the hall says more than enough.

“What about Defense?” a brave student yells.

“I’m not canceling,” Bilbo replies flatly.

“Very generous of you, indeed,” Gandalf, the traitor, mutters. Loud enough for everybody to hear, naturally.

“Also, I would like all of you to have a look into every cupboard you pass. You may remember that after the last celebration some poor students wandered into a closet and did not find their way back out for a week.”

Right, Bilbo thinks. They had been talking about the closet being a portal to another dimension. He hopes Gandalf investigated that matter, since that could pose a grave danger to the entire school.

“Lastly, if anybody of you sees our Herbology teacher, please let me know. Herbology class, naturally, is cancelled until further notice.”

Bilbo looks to Bofur. “I didn’t see Radagast at the party.” At least he doesn’t  remember him at all.

Bofur wiggles his eyebrows. “No, but then I suppose you did not see too many people after all.” He does quite skillfully dodge the carrot Bilbo turns into a projectile.

“Though from what I know Radagast disappeared into the Forest talking about giant rabbits and sledding.”

Bilbo silently gazes out at the half-empty hall for a long moment. Normal … is quite a meaningless term at Hogwarts.

“Better giant rabbits than giant spiders, I suppose.”

* * *

 

While Bilbo does not cancel his class, he decides today is a good day to give his students some reading assignments and then have them try to apply said knowledge. As expected, the exercise garners interesting results: not only does the students’ magical control vary wildly, but so does their reading comprehension.

Bilbo is reluctantly impressed when a fourth-year Ravenclaw twists the barrier spell into a small hurricane. A first year temporarily fiddles with gravity - Bilbo himself feels his feet leave the ground, though the poor student herself floats in mid-air before Bilbo manages to cancel the spell. A set of rather infamous Hufflepuff twins respectively creates a fire and water barrier. The first leaves the caster fairly charred, the latter has everybody else wet.

It’s a miracle, Bilbo thinks once again as he makes his way to Thorin’s quarters, that Hogwarts hasn’t been shut down yet. The number of accidents is skyhigh. And yet, magic makes taking care of the aftermath so much easier.

“Thorin,” Bilbo calls as he steps into the dimly lit, already familiar rooms. “Are you feeling better?”

The Potions Master emerges from another room, freshly dressed, with a small, sheepish smile on his face.

“Quite so,” Thorin replies. “And I’m sorry if I was … overly enthusiastic last night.”

Bilbo can’t help it. He is no longer a teenager, but he can’t help giggling. “No worries, I enjoyed it. Also I believe your students rather thank you - most of the students I taught today seemed to still be drunk.”

Thorin chuckles, and draws Bilbo close to press a short kiss on his forehead. “I don’t regret sleeping in, then.”

Bilbo grumbles, though he nuzzles into Thorin’s freshly washed hair. “You should have told me.”

Thorin runs a hand through Bilbo’s curls, and then steers them toward the couch. “Some things you best find out for yourself.”

“Like whether some of last night’s enthusiasm still lingers in you?” Bilbo inquires as he takes hold of Thorin’s hair and pulls him down.

* * *

 

As even Scotland begins to grow warmer, the end of the term approaches and Bilbo finds himself sitting in Gandalf’s office once again.

“I would like to renew my offer,” the headmaster says, his eyes twinkling at Bilbo who calmly sips his tea. “I believe Tauriel would be particularly put out if you failed to return.”

Bilbo looks out of the window. He isn’t entirely certain how many times he nearly died during the last year. There was a reason he had mostly left the magical world behind, after all, and being back at Hogwarts had reminded him of that.

Yet...

“Alright,” Bilbo replies, and is quite satisfied to see Gandalf jump. “But I want different quarters. And an assistant. And could we please get a no-fly zone over the Quidditch Pitch?”

* * *

 

And then the term is over. Exams pass in a normal flurry of madness with the added attempt of cheating through the ghosts - apparently a pair of particularly clever Ravenclaws thought Nearly-Headless Nick would be a good help on the history exam.

What gets them caught is the fact that Nearly-Headless Nick remembers another version of the second goblin rebellion that is not in the textbook.

Bilbo makes sure his exams are as harmless as possible. He still needs to send three students to Oin once the practical exams conclude. But that is nothing compared to Thorin who stalks up to the dining table at that last evening smelling of smoke, ozone, and garlic butter, and Bofur promptly elbows Bilbo, saying, “Well, here is your dinner.”

Bilbo half-mindedly casts a minor curse on him, turning his legs into satyr legs. Bofur yelps, while Bilbo stands to catch up with Thorin.

“You alright?” he asks while Thorin stomps over to Gandalf.

“Fine,” Thorin grumbles; his face a thundercloud. “Headmaster,” he says to Gandalf, and the old man leans forward.

“Everybody alive?” he asks.

“Yes,” Thorin replies. “Except for the eastern wall. Which is quite dead and gone. I told you it needed reinforcement, and not just some charms slapped on! Actual reinforcement!”

Bilbo blinks and takes a moment to digest the words. Apparently the students managed to blow a thousand-year old structure into pieces. Quite an achievement.

Then again, generations of students’ probably forged the path for that.

Gandalf thoughtfully twirls his beard. “So everyone is alright?”

“Yes!” Thorin replies. “Except the wall, which also stood in  my living quarters”

“Well,” Gandalf leans back with a satisfied nod. “Then all is good.” Bilbo would like to differ, and so apparently does Thorin.

“You can always move in with Bilbo,” Gandalf suggests cheerfully. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.” Several of their colleagues hide their laughter behind fake coughing. It’s enough to make the part of the student population that is still here eating (and has not moved on to the various dormitory parties yet) look up.

“Or,” and here Gandalf leans forward again. “You could use the summer vacation to go on a quest. Take back your homeland! Reclaim Erebor!”

Bilbo’s eyebrows rise.

The thundercloud on Thorin’s face evaporates. He shakes his head eventually, and chuckles. “Actually, I think Erebor is doing quite fine without me. What with being one of the richest economies worldwide and all.”

“Ah,” Gandalf comments. “Pity.”

* * *

 

 

Despite Gandalf’s support for clandestine quests to reinstate magical royalty in progressive democratic states, Thorin and Bilbo decide to take another kind of vacation. They do stop over at Erebor to have a look at things - and hightail out once somebody recognizes Thorin. Then they spend two weeks in Bilbo’s old home, scandalizing the neighborhood.

After they’ve ended up in the press again, and learn that repairs of Thorin’s quarters still haven’t completed, Bilbo turns to Thorin.

“Have you ever been to Bora Bora?”

Thorin shakes his head, while he chews on the last bit of the lovely dinner they’re sharing in Muggle London. “Never.”

“It’s about as far away as you can get without leaving the planet.”

Thorin grins. “That does sound good!”

(Of course, even on  beautiful tropical islands, they don’t entirely evade the public eye. However, their vacation picture only makes it to page 45 of the Wizarding Times, and the author is rather congratulatory, wondering whether an actual engagement took place.)

* * *

 

Bilbo still marvels at the fact that he came back when in late August, four days before the term at Hogwarts begins, he marches onto the Quidditch Pitch again, dressed in practical flying robes this time. Tauriel, Kili, Dwalin, Fili, Bofur, Ori - nearly the entire staff is there and Gandalf waves cheerfully from the tribune.

“Try-outs,” Tauriel announces grandly, her voice echoing over the stadium. “The fact that you’ve been on the team last year is no automatic qualification. Today you need to prove your skills or you will be replaced!”

And perhaps some will, Bilbo notes with surprise. Nori grins and winks at Dwalin, and Bifur smirks at his cousin.

“Is everybody clear?” Tauriel demands, looking at the faces of the staff present. “This year we’ll be fighting for the cup again! And the Australians are joining in! So we need to have our best players in the game! If you sign up, you are committed to winning!”

It’s still teachers’ Quidditch, Bilbo wants to protest. It’s not a matter of life or death. Well, unless there are dragons involved. And in all honesty, that airplane encounter could have taken a wrong turn as well.

“Is somebody trying out for seeker?” he asks conversationally as he readies his broom while Tauriel walks over to the set of balls. Once again, he’s not entirely sure why he is signing up for this madness.

“Actually,” Thorin says, “I am.”

Bilbo stops, thunderstruck. “What?” he squeaks.

“We’re on!” Tauriel shouts.

And before Bilbo can ask any more, Thorin flies off. This is mad. Mad, mad, mad, his mind chants, but now the chase is on, because Bilbo is not going to let Thorin get away with this. He won’t!

So he takes off at breakneck speed, almost barrels over poor Bofur, ignores Fili shouting at him to watch out, and when he catches sight of the familiar golden blink past Thorin the world narrows down to him, the broom, and the wind rushing past his ears.

Euphoria fills his veins as he blasts across the sky, leaning forward as far as he can. The new broom hums under his fingers, the inane speed not a difficulty, and Bilbo feels like shouting with glee. Thorin, despite his headstart, doesn’t stand a chance.

Bilbo whirls past him, within seconds, his fingers already closing around the snitch before Thorin has even come near it. Almost reluctantly, Bilbo slows down and holds the snitch up toward Thorin.

The potions teacher’s hair glows lovely under the autumn sun.

Thorin laughs. “I thought so,” he says, not moving from their position, hovering in mid air over the great lake.

“Then why challenge me?” Bilbo asks with a raised eyebrow.

[“Didn’t want to get you rusty,” Thorin shoots back. Then his smile softens. “But take a look inside.”](http://radioproxy.tumblr.com/post/145869906806/double-double-toil-and-trouble-by)

Bilbo blinks, then realises that Thorin means the snitch. His curiosity piqued, Bilbo takes a closer look - and the golden ball is indeed not the standard one used at Hogwarts’ games. It’s new and is closed by a tiny latch.

Thorin watches Bilbo quietly, but with some anticipation, and Bilbo wonders. Some suspicion rises at the back of his mind, but before he has figured it out, the latch unfolds, and the snitch opens in his hand.

Nestled in a small cushion sits a beautiful golden ring.

Bilbo’s heart skips a beat. He looks over to Thorin who now sports a flush on his cheeks.

“Thorin…” he mumbles, dumbfounded.

“I, well,” Thorin stammers. “I …It needn’t be now or anytime soon. Or ever, to be honest. I just wanted to give you something to, well, … To say I want to spend the rest of my life with you, I guess.”

Bilbo’s heart surges with joy. Before he knows what he’s doing he has thrown himself forward, and is pressed up against Thorin’s chest, awkward position and interlocking brooms to be damned, and incredible happiness fills his chest. There are no words to express what he is feeling, so he hopes the embrace can transmit his emotions.

Thorin laughs and wraps his arms around Bilbo in return.

At that moment the fragile construct they make goes off balance. They tilt over and the brooms spiral down, and with their limbs entangled like this, all they have time for is a short “ooops” from Bilbo before they hit the water.

Thorin emerges sputtering, Bilbo laughing. The snitch, with the ring inside, is safely tucked into an inside pocket of his robe, and he remembers to cast a spell to help them swim in their clothes.

“Sorry about that,” Thorin sheepishly admits, while treading water. “I just thought…”

“It was brilliant,” Bilbo confesses as he begins to swim toward the shore.

Thorin’s entire face lights up and he turns to watch Bilbo while swimming. Their hands brush together. “So you…?”

Bilbo smiles, and treads water. “Of course. This may be utterly insane - I mean we regularly have students blowing up our classrooms. There is a giant squid in this very lake. We’re teachers playing Quidditch.”

He shakes his head, sending droplets of water flying.

“But this is the happiest I have been in a long time, and I wouldn’t mind continuing like this forever after. With you by my side.”

Thorin reaches over and draws him into a lovely, soaking wet kiss.

It pulls them both under, and perhaps that is an apt metaphor for what they are doing; it’s not particularly sane or safe, but it’s exhilarating and beautiful. They both feel right at home and happy, here and together.

_End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm curious to hear your thoughts and impressions - either here or over on [tumblr](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com).


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